He didn’t return to the bomb-hole until Monday, a beautifully warm sunny day with a mild south-westerly wind, perfect for swimming. Alone, he plunged into the ice-cold water, crawling as far as the mass of tangled brambles, lichen petrified...

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...