hands down my favorite london sunday morning. sitting on the pavement, cuddling a paper cup of tea, eyeing up other people's pastries as we listen to the band. its best just outside jones's, catching sunbeams in the spring. the little girl with the ringlets and the blue shoes as she shakes her shoulders to the violinists jig. cups of fresh pressed orange juice on a hangover, as i'm buying ewes milk cheese, rye bread, pesto and olives for lunch, a picnic lunch on the living room floor as the light streams in through the windows. armfulls of lilies and bagsfull of orchids. pots of basil whose smell keeps me happy every step home. and everything's a fiver. come on, wheres all you gardeners. i'm in the shops, poring over porcelain bowls and vietnamese tea cups. longing for that rajasthani cabinet with the greying blue paint. drinking in the indiaafrica, making eyes. touching each piece of cotton, cashmere, silk, putting on hats, holding a jacket to my shoulders. counting through the cash jammed in my jeans pocket. these'd be eighteen pound in marks and spencer. girls in red lipstick, sunglasses abound. the vintage chic of shoreditch rubs its shoulder to nature. it gets close as the road funnels us through bamboo and bay trees, cyclamens and hyacinths, bulbs, daffs and buds and we tread on each others toes. bags bash your calves and you get a gladioli to the eye. you can have these two heathers a fiver. bargain.