Roses are the most operatic creatures in anyone’s garden. They require their own stage and demand exquisite attention—woe betide the rudely grasping hand. Budding daintily, they swell and burst forth in thrilling coloratura. Erotic suffusion is also in their repertoire: the pale-pink petals of an ancient alba rose inspired the name cuisses de nymphe émue, often translated for delicate ears as “thighs of a blushing nymph.” Perhaps no other flower has been so adored by artists. READ ON

On a cool autumn morning in AD79, at a café bar in Pompeii, a slave we will call Festus was preparing a pot of beans and onions in readiness for the lunchtime rush. The barmaids would soon be arriving — the bar doubled as a bordello and the price for extra favours from each of the women was scribbled on the wall beside the counter.

Stirring idly, Festus noticed that the sky had darkened and a roaring noise was building to the north of the city. Whatever was going on felt threatening; he put down his spoon and fled. READ ON

“Bring us a basin! We’re going to be sick!” From the first page of Roald Dahl’s classic short novel Matilda (1988), you know you’re in for subversion. READ ON