I lie in a clearing in a yellow field as the clouds drift idly above my head. I feel as lazy as they do with the yellow sun setting my white shoes alight as they lie beside me and next to a shiny can of Coke. My friends are away now, in India and Tanzania and the exotic places of the world, but I love my yellow field in England.

Every twelve minutes, the comfortable silence is punctuated with the clamour of trains passing to London, and I wonder about the people inside them. They still work every day, wake at seven and home at six, and every day I come here with a sandwich and my mobile, and stare up at the sky and think.

And then the sun begins to turn to orange and sets the sky ablaze with red, lining the clouds with bright light, or the sky turns a mellow purple, and I stare in awe of the sky and wish myself up in that light, up with the clouds, flying away from pain and anger, but I know I’d always miss my yellow field in England.