Antarctica is a horrible lady. Mainly because she's so easy to anthropomorphise. You cannot know her without meeting her. People will try and tell you what she's like, but it won't help. "She's cold," they say, "and windy". But she's not. She's cold and windy in the same way as my chicken sandwich is a t-rex. On a good day she'll bury you in soft snow, evaporate your fuel from its tins and blind you with her beauty. She will never like you. The best you can ever hope for is grudging tolerance. Even in a good mood she's twice as cold as my freezer. Yet she carefully preserves every remnant of your visit, like a capricious grandmother. She'll convince your friends to kill themselves so she can have you to herself. On a bad day she'll just kill you. She'll freeze your food, freeze your clothes solid, yell at you until you're deaf, bite your fingers off, steal the vitamins from your body and then double the weight of all your possessions. On a blustery whim she can pick men up and scatter them like unwanted toys. For fun she makes compasses unusable and digs crevasses under thin ice. What a nasty lady.