The Sphinx sat, as it had done for centuries, eying the horizon with a jaundiced eye. Which, he thought was rather appropriate given the puss-yellow cloud of sand that anyone with half a brain could see massing on the far horizon.

He’d been around long enough to know that anthropomorphising the weather would get him the square root of nowhere but, bloody hell, if this didn’t happen again and a-bloody-gain. He’d just recovered from the last scouring, been dug out of the resulting dune by willing if less than thoughtful archaeologists and wouldn’t you know it a bit of low pressure and another bugger of a blast was readying itself to repeat the punishment. It wasn’t as if he needed to exfoliate, was it? So could you blame him for ascribing a malevolent intention to each recurring sand storm?

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