Mary Rose Cook

On Sunday morning, I took the tube from Brixton to Leicester Square, walked down Charing Cross Road and sat on the steps of Trafalgar Square. As I smoked a cigarette, someone went past with a cup of coffee and so I got up, walked to Pret and got myself a cup and then resumed my position.

I sat in perfect contentment, the misleadingly named Destroyer playing on my iPhone, the sun in my eyes and the coffee warm between my hands. I thought about how happy I was.

Twelve-thirty came and I walked up the steps of the National Gallery to meet my Dad. We looked at some Van Dyke paintings and then headed off to see some Rembrants.

My phone rang. It was work and something was broken and I had to go in.