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,...

She ran up the fire stairs, taking him by surprise, ‘I hate lifts,’ she panted. He opened his arms, ‘I’ve missed you, Lizzie.’ Simon was wearing the same angora sweater as last time, faded chinos, loafers, no socks. Pleased that he hadn’t changed,...

I will not say sorry or thank you but for the things my parents or any stranger who helped me i would return my gratitude by doing the same what they have done    I feel i am lucky to return...