I once got into trouble with my family for saying that my favourite part of the day was walking in the morning across St. James’s Park.   They thought it sad that a grown man should have so few other pleasures.   But I have to confess that I enjoy it still, particularly at this time of year when the air is bright and the shadows long.

I used to always pass a man who I assumed was on his way from Albany to the House of Lords.   There are always small groups of tourists taking photographs and runners.   As I cross the bridge, I remember a description of Ian Nairn looking east across the lake towards Xanadu.

I like to think that the man with the plastic bag is Oliver Letwin disposing of his constituents’ letters