Horns beep, tuk tuk drivers call out to us from the road, weaving artfully out of the way of cars and bicycles and the occasional lumbering elephant. We smile at it all, even at the touts who are trying to show us their wares. Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan, is known as the Pink City, and as we wander though the charismatic streets of the Old City, we’re submerged in a visual symphony of vibrant colour.

It’s the year 2014, umpteen years since the coming of the First Men; King Joffrey is dead; an even smaller boy king sits on the Iron Throne. King’s Landing is busy. Its cobblestone streets are crowded, its beaches have no room for another pair of thongs, the whole place is heaving with ... tourists.

About a week ago I found myself riding the night train from Budapest to Transylvania. It's pretty much the same route that Jonathan Harker took in Bram Stoker's Dracula. A work of fiction so effective the sense of foreboding is really hard to shake at night on a near-empty sleeper carriage with a conductor who has a habit of materialising out of thin air every time you pluck  up the courage to leave the cabin.  “Are you looking for the toilet?” he asks in his oily Transylvanian accent, smiling a

Liz Galinovic talks to anti-porn activist Gail Dines, ancient history academics, and a whole lot of men and women about keeping it bare down there.

Under the spotlight: the art of weaving. The artisan weavers chat quietly to each other as they sit in pairs. They work in tandem, the Golden Chevron pattern of our Lombard rug creeping steadily up the loom. A craft and a complicated science, people have been weaving for thousands of years. Ambrish Bharti, one of our leading loom artisans, tries to explain how an intricate webbing of thread is artfully made into a rug.

Benedict Cumberbatch doesn’t think society is as progressive as it believes it is, and his new film The Imitation Game “isn’t a history lesson”, learns Liz Galinovic.

“Hey babe,” I texted my friend the other day. “Just wanted to make sure you’re not being vilified.” It was a joke. My friend is a Muslim. Well, no, and yes. She’s not a practising Muslim, I don’t even think she believes in God, she’s an Australian woman born to Egyptian migrants who are Muslims.

It’s the direction of the Templeton armchair's lines that evoke that swanky Sixties style.