Behind her neatly trimmed lawns and floral cascade of weaved hanging baskets, was a dim green coloured glass glass-house. We sauntered inside and met with a foray of delicious eats, from bramley apple dumplings to custard pies, in pink and yellow. The resident fat lady had a pleasant smile on her face as she munched into a rhubarb and biscuit pie. Dale grinned.

Suddenly, there was a scream from the garden. A few people rushed out to inspect. A bundle of ivy had become detached from the old wall and had fallen on top of one of the old ladies. She was frantically trying to unravel it, but it twisted and twined around her as she struggled. Two gentlemen grabbed her arms, and pulled her in two opposite directions. It must have taken at least half an hour to set her free and afterwards her cheeks were red and her hair was a wretched mess. Her torn hat lay strewn on the pavement. She was nolonger the formidable woman we had seen in the green house. A bead of sweat formed on Mrs. Kindworthy’s brow as she studied her damaged wallflower. Dale and I sneaked out quietly, during the cufuffle and headed along a path to the side of her house. It lead us to a tiny old village of narrow streets, terracotta shop canopies and sign posts. Baker St. was packed with tourists. We sat outside a small café and had tea with tiny coloured iced buns and winged things. A row a delectable jams caught my eyes inside the gournet shop next door.