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An apocalyptic dog walk in Seville

She looked up at me imploringly from the simmering pavement as the sun beat down on one man and his dog in Seville. ‘You haven’t peed yet, Amaya, we need to walk on a bit more,’ though I realised the injustice, as we were both so dehydrated neither of us had much chance of fulfilling such obligations. I found myself unexpectedly dog-sitting in the Andalusian capital after my English landlady got rather tipsy and, in a moment of reckless abandon, committed to booking a flight back to the UK to spend time with her family for the first time in a year. I don’t mind the sun especially; it reminds

The grotesque world of supercar towers

As an 11-year-old, I tried to persuade my mother that we should sell our Victorian farmhouse in the Wiltshire countryside and pour every penny into a brand-new 212mph Jaguar XJ220, which cost £435,000 at the time. We would simply live inside this low-slung two-seat supercar, parked up in a lay-by with a washing line hung between the car aerial and a nearby tree. ‘We’re not just doing that to be cool, we’re doing it because it makes us more money’ Now an alternative has arisen. Car manufacturers are racing to build luxury residential towers in the enclaves of flashy money. In Miami and Dubai, Mercedes-Benz is putting the three-pointed star on

Cambodia’s return to joy

In Cambodia, everybody is looking forward to Bon Om Touk. If your Khmer is a bit rusty, this means the mid-autumn New Moon Water Festival, celebrated in late October. This fervent, noisy, firework-banging festival has multiple, colourful meanings. For a start, it marks the end of the endless summer rain – which turns everyone’s laundry mouldy and gets a tad annoying. It also marks the moment when the fertile Tonle Sap river, which rolls through the sprawling, youthful, trafficky, heat-struck, palm-shaded, jacaranda-adorned, busy-yet-languid, skyscraper-sprouting city, does a handbrake turn. That is to say, around that time of year, and for complex hydrogeographic reasons, the Tonle Sap reverses itself, flowing backwards

Remaking Harry Potter is risky

Few franchises have the cult-like devotion of Harry Potter. One only has to watch the video of hordes of adults counting down the arrival of the Hogwarts Express at King’s Cross, and their fury when it didn’t arrive, to understand the religious fervour people feel for the wizarding world. Yet one announcement did come last which, one that will send shivers down the spine of every magic-loving millennial super-fan. HBO has launched a casting call for its new Harry Potter series. Even the teaser trailer makes it clear the creative chokehold the series is in I am sure this is exciting news for some: mainly pushy parents who are already

When family invade your privacy

I try to head for cooler climes year-round but particularly during the summer, as anything over 20 degrees has me sweating like a pervert and swearing like a docker. But this year I was persuaded to join friends in Corfu, and so with my younger daughter in tow, I braced myself for the inevitable perimenopausal response to savage heat. 10-year-old Ottilie, of course, loved it instantly. Reflecting, as she basked in the balmy waters of Corfu Old Town, that while she’d loved our holiday in Iceland a few weeks previously, and while she agreed that Norway is a peerless destination, she could now understand why some of her friends like

Three bets for the Doncaster St Leger card

Only seven runners are due to line up for the final Classic of the flat season, the Group 1 Betfred St Leger. Unsurprisingly, the small field at Doncaster tomorrow (3.40 p.m.) is dominated by runners trained in Ireland by Co Tipperary maestro Aidan O’Brien. I had not expected to bet in the race but the sponsors are paying three places and so I can’t resist an each way dabble Of O’Brien’s three runners, Illinois is top rated and has a favourite’s chance because we know, from his Royal Ascot win in the Group 2 Queen’s Vase in June, that he will stay tomorrow’s trip of more than one mile and

The joy of rescuing battery hens

They came straight off the back of a lorry and were placed carefully – top to tail – in three cat carriers, two hens in each. Broken feathers stuck from the air vents, bright, suspicious, amber eyes peered out. We drove them home, listening out for any squawks of distress, but they were silent. Bemused, exhausted, probably wearily resigned to whatever fate awaited them next. These former battery hens, who’d spent the entirety of their short lives living in metal cages no bigger than a sheet of A4, should have been on their way to slaughter These former battery hens, who’d spent the entirety of their short lives living in

I’m glad my parents track me

Minor royal and former rugby player Mike Tindall was criticised this week when his daughter was spotted wearing an Apple AirTag, a £35 digital disc that can be tracked from a phone. This was apparently an invasion of his 10-year-old’s privacy (nevermind the fact the photo that revealed his daughter’s accessory was taken by a press photographer).  I have over 15 people on Find My Friends, including my parents I really don’t see what the fuss is about. Plenty of people happily sign up to allow their friends and family to track them in real time. There is Snapchat Maps, WhatsApp location, Life360, Google Family Link and GeoZilla  – the

In praise of anachronisms

Do you know what an anachronism is? They’re very clear in cultural terms: Shakespeare’s clocks in Julius Caesar, for example. But in historical terms, it’s a different matter. When His Majesty King Charles III was crowned, the online scoffers were quick to mobilise themselves. One enthusiastic Jacobin tweeted that the enthroned, orbed and sceptred sovereign was ‘insane’, an ‘anachronism’. Out the scoffers troop, reliably, at every State Opening of Parliament. (And quite right too: mockery is a vital part of a successful polity). ‘How Ruritanian!’ they sneer (not quite grasping that the Ruritanians were copying us. And also, er, fictional.) The jeerers usually finish by wondering why we can’t be