It’s a sticky morning in more ways than one. Last night’s disturbing dreams are sticking to my brain. I know that I have to unstick myself and walk. For my soul, my body and my cardiologist.

Writers read with discrimination, to feed their own writing. They take reading seriously. And then there’s me – I’m the party animal of reading.

While the Chinese gardeners are busy growing vegetables in Manhattan, USA, it is the beginning of the monsoon in Maharashtra, India, and we have to cut, cut, cut.

My balcony garden comes to life at the same time as the Chinese farm gardens, 12 storeys below. I grow flowers and the Chinese gardeners grow vegetables. And there you have it, the chasm between our levels of privilege and attitudes. I want color; they want food.