On the morning of the first game I heard a familiar voice in the breakfast room. "I'd like a cheese omelette and a rooibos tea." It is the BBC's Jonathan Agnew.
Climate scientists are like an exotic tribe - fascinating, sometimes hard to understand and rarely visited.
"They came in and they said: 'Get up, get downstairs, you're under arrest'.” A colleague had told the Royal Navy police that Emma was a lesbian.
At Linquenda House, Harare's gloomy immigration department, the official inspecting my visa extension form asks me what I do. "I'm a wineseller," I lie.
I'm working up to a difficult question: "So what kind of images were you into: oral, anal, vaginal?" For the man sitting opposite me with the warm eyes and easy laugh is a self-confessed porn addict.
At Samphire Beach, a Japanese woman stands in front of Dover's white cliffs. It is 10 past seven on a Tuesday morning. Most people will be having breakfast or getting ready for a day at the office. Miyuki Fijita is swimming to France.
The Paedophile Information Exchange was affiliated to the National Council for Civil Liberties - now Liberty - in the late 1970s and early 1980s. How did pro-paedophile campaigners operate so openly?
In crowded Britain, villages like this would be overrun by city dwellers seeking pretty weekend cottages. But France is littered with beautiful villages – what to do with them all?
The professor of surgery hears a knock on his office door. A surgeon enters gingerly to apologise for missing an important student seminar they were running. “I was pushing the truck."
The Parexel unit is a strange and private outpost within the sprawling concrete compound that is Northwick Park Hospital. It is basically one long corridor with seven or eight wards running off it, each containing half a dozen beds.
Lower Farm, just outside Chesterfield, is not what most of us would think of as a farm. It is run by a poultry company called Applied Group. Everything happens in four large sheds. Nearly all chicken meat eaten in the UK comes from a place like this.
Where Bourdain’s prose was like someone pirouetting around an abbatoir with a chainsaw, Buford is more measured, offering the inquisitive view of a middle aged ingénu. In the end it gives us a better picture of how a great restaurant kitchen really feels.