By Saphire Favell

Swapping concrete for conservatories.

I’ve been collecting dots.

Marc.. did you hear that? I’ve been collecting dots. Just like a lady bird.

Having left the shaky palms of South East London a few weeks ago I found myself outside the gates of Kew Gardens. A break, greatly called for – to breathe and connect to nature. Mother nature. Encompassed by its promise of distant lands and great, gleaming evergreens I found myself impatient to trawl and entangle myself within its tropical vines, its confines, and absorb the intricacies of its celebrated and abundant labyrinth.

But I wasn’t alone. I had the company of three old school friends – including my first ever beautiful yet useless boyfriend who, rather admirably and desperately, is experimenting with sobriety. Envious. Aside from the four of us there was the usual gang of slightly hunched ostentatious gummy mummies who traipsed around the gardens chasing their wildly grotesque offspring. The way they moved, slithered, and cooed for their young made me feel, quite frankly, uncomfortable. The overpriced and pathetic seed bar recently consumed danced, involuntarily, in my stomach. Will I ever feel broody/maternal? Who knows. The only babies on my mind, at the moment, are the ones being killed (mostly by Pete). I often think about how unnerving that saying must sound if you’re not in advertising. Oh well. Regardless, the flock of middle class white women with questionable haircuts continued to roam, seeming so everlastingly trapped within the park walls – Kew Gardens human equivalent to Syon Park’s peacocks.

I’m not sure if you’ve recently visited, but if you do, go to the Waterlily house. It’s beautiful. (And relevant to that singularity class).

Blooms of giant waterlilies and lotus flower blanket the reflective pond water whilst hanging gourds fall from, what seems, a infinite sky – a liquid Aladins Cave. As we made our way around, condensation dripped down to feed our autumn skin and swamp our hair. After a quick few minging selfies and an accidental echoing remark that someone’s breasts looked great, we left the small humid magical glass house. We thought we’d come out looking glowing and dewy – Vogue-esque. We were wrong.. Instead we stepped back into the real world with the same waxy hue cannibals develop after eating human flesh. I digress.

After visiting all of the incredible houses, a tour of the treetop walk,, a warming cup of tea and a retelling of the story of my last visit to Kew when a kid got his head caught between the stair bannisters only to be freed by firemen, we left for a much undeserved trip the pub.

It was delightful.