Rich – but what’s the point?

On the slopes above Camps Bay, one house in particular arrests your attention. It doesn’t have a warrant and it doesn’t read your attention its rights, but it arrests it anyway, kicking down the front door of your sensibilities, beating your aesthetics unconscious with a cosh, and helping itself to your last drops of good

Let them drink gin

The estate agent sniffed me over and knew I wouldn’t be buying, but the rain was drifting down in sheets over the city and nobody had come in all morning. Boredom trumped disdain. He stretched his face into a reasonable facsimile of a smile and handed me a pamphlet as if he were sprinkling delousing