Sam Redlark

  The Firksin, or Arctic Sheep Hare, possesses a coat that consists of seven layers of fibres. Under temperate conditions these strata of hair lie flat against the body of the animal giving it a sleek, supernaturally white appearance. As the temperature drops, the layers will rise up, one at a time, until the animal will appear to be wearing a woollen fleece. The Arctic explorer, Cyril Roberts, would seek out populations of grazing hares. He observed that the layers of fur would rise in anticipation of colder conditions and stronger winds, making them a good barometer of inclement weather. “When the third of forth layer of hairs begin to lift and they start resembling sheep, it's time to anchor the tents as best you can and dig in,” he reported. Roberts controversially introduced populations of Firksin to the Antarctic where they have thrived. This has brought the animal into conflict with the unloved, but ecologically important, Tonkin's Vole, though the interloper is undoubte

  A few days ago, my Great Uncle Perce passed away in hospital. His death did not come as a surprise. In August of this year, he had turned 105. He had received his customary birthday card from the Queen – his sixth – which he had given to my Father. His final days were quiet. His lungs were unable to draw in enough oxygen to sustain him. In the wake of his final shallow breath, an immense archive of knowledge and experience was irrevocably stricken from the living memory of our species, and lost in time forever. Friedrich Nietzsche advised that one should aim to die at the appropriate time. In most cases, whether one has succeed or failed in this endeavour is left to the retrospective judgement of others. My great uncle would probably have been the first to agree that he had lingered on this earth for too long. He was the unwilling inheritor of a double-edged set of genetics that maintained a tenacious grip on life, regardless of its quality. His body simply didn't know how to die