A cool blue sky framed by a border of plum trees… I could be anywhere but London. The scene: a secret walled garden, where fortunately just a few explorers enter its gates. My companions: a blue cashmere blanket (on loan from my gracious cat), a slice of homemade Spanish tortilla and an iced soya latte, rapidly losing its cool in the unobscured sun. Cawing crows patrol the grounds, making their disdain clear for all to hear. One tentatively approaches my tortilla then thinks better of it (too much onion perhaps?). The near silence is interrupted by the arrival of two yummy mummies in maxi dresses who pour champagne into plastic glasses while their golden boys gorge on chicken and mayo rolls, ”What, no prawns mummy?”. My gaze returns to the blue ceiling above me where birds make bat-like shapes and aeroplanes tear across faint clouds. Across the garden, a curly-haired girl tends to a pumpkin patch, her latte-coloured skin darkening under the scorching sun. Jasper, a newborn baby boy, and his besotted mother enjoy precious cuddles on a checkered picnic blanket before his stressed-looking father joins them for hurriedly eaten sandwiches. Floppy hats, walking sticks and velcro sandals signal the arrival of American tourists, promenading the garden paths as they listen in awe to the tour guide’s passionate accounts. I futilely attempt to get my work done (a mundane copywriting task which I’m in no rush to do) when the curly-haired gardener breaks the spell in beautiful Trinidadian tones “Just letting you know that the gardens are closing in ten minutes, no rush”.