You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your drunk uncle, and there is no avoiding a sinking feeling when he utters the words ice age. You just know that what’s coming next will not be about the miracle and wonder of geology.
It will be, like we haven’t been through this a hundred times already Uncle Jim, some bit of tosh he got from Hosking or a mate, some fallacious slam-dunk disproof of the climate change claptrap.
You will patiently once more explain the difference between oscillation over thousands upon thousands of years and the vastly different surge of the last one hundred, and all the rest of it. Eventually he may grudgingly dismount his donkey.
