This event in Waterstones, Piccadilly, and another in Barking Learning Centre, were my reasons for being in London. My editor at John Murrays, Mark Richards, and fellow author, Jessie Greengrass, chatted about books – writing them and publishing them – to two lovely groups.

I love London. I love the surprises: a hidden church, a tiny park, an unexpected coffee stall. I love the mix of architectural styles. I love Pret.

And now I love Kew Gardens. It was too nice to do indoor, cultural stuff, so I took myself off on the tube – accidentally choosing a carriage full of six-year-olds all kitted out in their hi-vis vests and sun hats: school tour. The wall of noise made me want to turn around and get back off again, and my expression must have conveyed as much to the woman near the door. “At least everyone in here is smiling,” she pointed out.

Kew: why doesn’t everyone live there? It’s so pretty, you couldn’t stage it: leafy streets, flowery everything, kids in crisp uniforms playing cricket in the village green. Then there are the Gardens themselves. The Palm House was impressive, but too hot; I pitied the school groups who had to endure their educational tour. But the vistas, named for trees, were perfect, and I wandered lazily, my only end goal being the Orangery and its cake.

This Zen gardener’s job was to rake the pebbles  into neat patterns. Was it meditative, or just hot, I asked. I was thinking of a character in my novel who struggles with the whole Zen gardening thing. He prevaricated a bit . . . time of year . . . low sun shows patterns better . . . then admitted that it was just hot. 

The eucalyptus grove smelled divine; Kew was having its Spice season. Then came the Orangery, a light, bright restaurant with every kind of tempting thing to eat. I chose cake, as recommended by Neil Hegarty in Cara Magazine, and it didn’t disappoint.