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What I know about Polish food could be scrawled on the back of a cornichon. With a great big black felt tip

When the first snows dust across the peaks of Europe, I love drinking Grüner Veltliner, the crystal white that's so pure it tastes like it's been chiselled from an Alp

My one and only encounter with the serial killer Reginald Christie was as a child. He was standing in his shirtsleeves in the kitchen of his ground-floor flat at 10 Rillington Place.

It's a piece about foul-mouthed real-estate salesmen flogging duff plots of land in Florida in which closing the deal is everything. And, boy, is this world brutal if you can't close.