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I grew up in the New Forest, studied French in Birmingham and Bordeaux, became a film scholar, dabbled with teaching, and finally moved to London. I share a flat with a little black cat, cook curries, and write stories.

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Rain lashes the flimsy marquee, already patched with shiny tape. A sudden gust bursts through the entrance, sending a flurry of lush green leaves tumbling into a dozen stubborn drinkers' pints as they cower under impotent patio heaters from the deafening cosy terror of a family friendly pub.

Enraged by flapping tent fabric, a damp Alsatian howls over the pub garden wall. Behind the edifice an infant wails in shrill response.

One by one the drinkers leave, many heading to the burger bar over the road.

This is how the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a Wimpy.

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