It penetrates your ritual afternoon nap/ and you are temporarily healed/ by this dish, with its salt

You wouldn’t put your hand in the fire and ask what’s wrong? to the flame.

In August, the names of the dead linger on the fence next to the COVID safety signs. Standing on the bridge, you gaze through torn sheets that read “Say Their Names.”

A love letter to John Lewis, in pictures.

Can I afford to take the risk of stepping out into a toxic atmosphere? Is whisky worth risking my life, and the lives of those I might come in contact with? I decide it is.

It’s a beautiful morning in Paris: the sun is up, the sky is blue, and everyone’s a nervous wreck.