They were hay-making in the meadows today.
That's not a sign you see very often tied to a London gate.
You could tell it was London because there weren't any poppies in the swathes of hay.
Only a few thistles.
But there was a flock of green parrots swooping over the field.
I walked across the meadow, feeling too hot.
Down the blackberry lane.
There weren't many ripe ones but it felt too much like the end of summer.
Then I spent the rest of the afternoon with a pot of Lapsang and Virginia Woolf.
Which felt appropriate as she lived only down the road.
(But did she like orange cake?)