slow morning

The late spring morning warming the back garden was too much to resist. But I was very conscious of time to the second as I settled onto the wooden chair.
‘It’s Slow Down London week,’ Al told me, just as I popped the last morsel of toast into my mouth.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, and regretted it immediately.
‘Well…’
I could tell that this was the opening to a potentially lengthy explanation that I just didn’t have time for at that moment. Highly aware of the irony, I said: ‘Talking of slow…’, and rose from the table to hasten off to the next part of my day, away from the garden, and slowness.