I am a deep, man-made hole in the earth, created by tearing away rock, stone, or sand. I hold secrets of the ground below, yet when I am filled with water, I become a place for a swim. What am I?

When pyjamas rule and shoes retire, I help warm your feet beside the fire.

If you're in the middle of cooking dinner, and your can opener all of a sudden stops working. Then you might be tempted to mockingly refer to it as this.

I’m reached by a ladder, a hatch, or a stair - a kingdom of cobwebs and forgotten air. I cradle old stories, in dust and in light. A collection of boxes hid away out of sight.

I have a roof to keep you dry and a floor to keep you high, but I have no walls to block the breeze or doors to lock with keys. I sit in the park or a garden fair, inviting you to take the air.