A writing exercise: a familiar location in 300 in words.

Blue sky, bracing wind, biting cold, but a welcome rest from a computer screen, I’m in St James’s Park on a February lunchtime. This is a regular spot for me, be it a midday stroll or taking the scenic route home post-work.

St James’s must be the most elegant of central London parks, but it’s its colour palette that makes it truly photogenic. A blue sky will give the lake a Mediterranean quality and set the gold of the Victoria Memorial ablaze. Even on a drab day, the leafless grey of a plane tree can be brought back to life by the green swishes of parakeets.

And then there are the pelicans. Arriving here as a gift for Charles II from the Russian ambassador in the 1660s, they are the lords of this manor and are defiantly going nowhere. Today, they’ve turned a pale pink, a seasonal change as they prepare for mating, which set against their yellow beaks make them look like some sort of giant foam pterodactyl-shaped pic’n’mix confectionery.

Less colourful, the grey squirrels. I can never grasp why the tourists are so keen to feed and photograph these invasive over-stayers. Red-breasted geese waddle by, proud and with a slight menace; far more photogenic than a plain old squirrel, but no one seems to notice.

The green will return in spring, but this is the time of year I prefer St James’s. Perhaps it’s the monochrome minimalism that the fallen leaves expose, before the trees grow plump again with foliage.

Side-stepping selfie-snapping tourists across the Blue Bridge, and weaving a figure-of-8 loop around the John Nash-designed lake, the chatter of birds is broken by the army band striking up their rehearsal from the neighbouring Wellington Barracks. Always drawn towards music, it’s a tuneful nudge to remind me to meander back to the office, itself dominating the skyline above the fringe of trees on the park’s southern edge.

Alas, then. Away from the piercing blue and back to the bleary dreariness of my laptop screen.