I go to some parts of London, and these places are always in West London, with Chiswick the dark hub, and feel I should be having another kind of life to the one I actually have. That I should be really ferrying a daughter to Saturday morning ballet; helping a son with his backhand on the tennis court; wondering in the stone-flagged, island kitchen whether we should take a gite in France for the summer; or opening patio doors in the keen air of an early morning for a brace of dogs to burst across a deep lawn.

God knows why I should think like this. I am pretty content with what I'm up to. Certainly I have ambitions which I edge nearer to. All in all I'm content. So why does Chiswick, a notoriously pampered place, make me think my life is wrong?