Oh that warm sun. I can still remember how it felt. We’d had dreadful summer, cloudy days which always seemed to carry a chill in the air. But the last week had been different. It was almost as if God had found a secret stash of warmth and decided to scatter it over my garden.

The deckchair seemed startled when I ripped it from its hibernation. Cobwebs and bugs gripped to its fabric and needed a firm swipe before landing in their new home on the lawnmower.

Late summer sun is beautiful. It brings peace and tranquillity. The children are at school – so there’s no noise of footballs being kicked, knees being scraped. No, late summer sun is the best.

Next to my chair, I carefully placed my tray of goodies. I’d bought that novel how long ago? Probably in the spring. It was one of those ‘must haves’, perhaps I should have bought a ‘must read’?

I’d made a large pot of tea and sneaked some biscuits too. Why did nibbling biscuits always make me feel so naughty? Everyone was out of the house, the guilt was all mine. I would have to make my confession later as I worshiped at the church of the Weight Watcher.

Oh what bliss. The novel remained on the tray, the sky demanding my full attention. Occasionally a wispy cloud decided to drift my way. I’ve never understood how people can see sheep and bears in clouds. To me, they are what they are. Big white things. Geography lessons had finished decades ago and I doubt my teacher would have been that impressed with the description I offered.

After dunking my third biscuit, I stretched out, pulling the reclining lever so I was almost flat. Closing my eyes I imagined I was in Italy. Busy days gave way to evenings on the hotel balcony. The warm sun dipped below the marble statues of the disciples aloft the cathedral. Sipping wine and sharing tales with my fellow tourists, it was always an idyllic way to finish the day. Oh Rome. How I yearned to return. It was four years since that trip and I never lost the passion for returning.

As I walked up the Spanish Steps, picking my way through the moody students who read their Byron and Keats, I found my own perch where I sat with my espresso. I watched other tourists pay dearly for their photo to be taken with an eastern European dressed as a Roman.

My Roman holiday came to a crashing end as the alarm bells sounded. Where was that noise coming from? Startled, I realised it wasn’t in Rome, but in my garden. The cordless phone was demanding my attention.

“Mrs Jones? Mrs Jones it’s Gloria. Are you coming in to school today? I know you’re ill, but the governors would still like to hold the meeting this afternoon.”

Oh yes. Late summer sun, the children are at school, there is no sound of footballs being kicked, knees being scraped…