In a development that has seismologists reaching for the valium and local politicians reaching for the nearest camera, the Philippines has been subjected to a relentless barrage of aftershocks. Hundreds of tremors, each one a spiteful reminder of the initial earthquake, have rattled the archipelago. The death toll, currently a grim tally that refuses to stabilise, is expected to climb with the same inexorable certainty as a bureaucrat's pension fund.
The ground itself has become a traitor, shifting and shuddering like a guilty man under interrogation. Survivors are left to pick through the wreckage, their resilience a testament to something I can only describe as the gin-soaked stubbornness of the human spirit. Meanwhile, the government, ever the theatrical troupe, has wheeled out the usual platitudes about 'swift action' and 'comprehensive disaster response.
' But let us be clear, dear reader: the only thing moving swiftly here is the tectonic plates. The only comprehensive plan is the one nature has for turning concrete into rubble. I am Barnaby Thistlethwaite, and I report from the epicentre of absurdity, where even the earth cannot be trusted to stay still.
