Kew

It was a Saturday afternoon. The Friday before had been horrible, a complete meltdown in an assessment which I should have breezed, then a late finish, last in the office, eyes blurring behind the computer screen as I struggled to complete a piece of work with a Monday deadline. The week following wasn't much better, a stupid o'clock start on the Monday to finish said piece of work, and then playing catch up with my inbox for the rest of the week.

But that Saturday afternoon was perfect, made even more so sandwiched as it was between the two. The sun was out, and despite power cuts on the overground and confusing Transport for London instructions we made it to Kew, where bright yellow daffodils lined the paths and parakeets flew between the branches of still bare trees. We walked by the river, through the rhododendrons, sat for awhile in front of the pagoda, climbed a staircase and emerged onto a walkway in the treetops, wandered beneath palm fronds and past cacti in the glasshouses.

Looking back at the photographs the afternoon is now graced with a dreamlike quality, flowers taken in the hot houses through a misted up lens or outside, blue and star-shaped, glowing, other-worldly. The sun slipping behind the Palm House, calling it all to a close.