By James Burt
It was the ultimate hipster joint, a pop-up restaurant in a burning building. Fans kept the worst of the smoke from our table, but it was hot, and we heard occasional crashes as parts of the roof collapsed. We giggled nervously while doing our best to enjoy overcooked, overpriced steaks. For dessert we had ice-cream. It was cooling and we gulped it down, desperate for relief from the heat. My friend wanted to take a photo for Instagram, but the plastic on her phone had melted. “No one will believe us back home,” I said, as my hair caught fire.
“I write because it’s a socially acceptable way of telling lies.” – the writer