Subscribe to my Newsletter. Click here


Your great-great-granddaughter is twenty years old in 2100. She has never known a stable climate. She was born into a world of permanent adaptation, managed retreat, and climate grief. She was born into a world that earlier generations broke and then handed to her to somehow survive in.

underground, london, flood, subway, transportation, urban, flood, flood, flood, flood, flood

She knows her family’s history. She knows about the boy by the window in 2035, the abandoned coastal home in 2043, the droughts of 2058, the deadly heat of 2075. She knows these were not inevitable.

She knows that in the early 21st century, there was still time to choose differently. The technology existed. The solutions were known. The science was unambiguous.

She looks at photographs of the England her ancestors knew: green, temperate, with coastlines that stayed where they were, with summers that were pleasant rather than dangerous, with food and water security that was taken for granted. It seems like a different country. It was.


She looks at those photographs, and she feels something that her generation has learned to live with but never quite accept: rage. Rage at the people who knew and did nothing. Rage at the people who profited while the world burned. Rage at the people who prioritised convenience and comfort and quarterly earnings over her right to a liveable future.

She knows their names. History has not been kind to them


Next Week: Your Great Granddaughter: 2075, The City That Cares