It’s 11:31 in the morning, and the sun is streaming in through the windows. Remnants of crackers and cheese sit next to a languid cup of tea, made from a nondescript drawstring teabag reminiscent of a Nottingham hotel. Later it’s tea and cake with friends near Kew Gardens. Karma Chameleon shuffles onto the lounge stereo; one of the first tunes I remember hearing when I was little. It looks like we have run out of bread.
Not a cloud in the sky.