It’s five-sixteen, rush hour, Poet’s Day, on Friday 20th July 2029. And the temperature outside has risen to 52C, a record high. I lie back in my cool thermal white tee-shirt, matching hipsters, anklets, and soft white ballet pumps,...

A Chef in pristine whites leans languidly against the entrance to La Parade des Chefs' live theatre cooking arena and takes a drag from his cigarette. In the dreary rain and filthy pollution of a murky night in the...

He never came back no he didn't he never came back no more said he would be gone just for a minute but he never came back no more put in his pocket a shiny gold shilling cleaned up his boots saddled up the philly but...