Sauntering down a quiet street in Chelsea this sunny Sunday, I thought now would be a good time to smell my armpits. For the bus was unnervingly hot and filming at the crack of dawn on a hangover induces its very own kind of sweat. So I thrust my hand up my shirt into the hot, prickly nook and gave my fingers a proper good sniff. I was wearing a new jacket after all, and I really didn’t want some porous pits contaminating it.

Yes, dear reader, this does sound a bit disgusting. But it is just one of those disgusting things we do when we’re shielded by privacy, all alone, free and confident to sniff pits and look at our vagina in the mirror. Which is why, then, a little butterfly filled my tummy (and subsequently flew out my derriere) when I glanced up, hand in situ to spy a sculpture of a man glistening above me, perching his biceps on the balcony and smoking in the manner of a Noel Coward wet dream.

I wouldn’t usually swoon at a Chelsea farmer, nor was I sure that this was swooning, but then this was a unique situation. I usually wouldn’t have my hands up my armpits when in the immediate vicinity of another living thing, including dogs – for they would certainly tilt their head in terror.

So there I found myself, in this macabre play, cast as some sort of street urchin or Biblical pariah or perhaps just a dirty 30-something who likes fiddling with her crevices in public. Either way, my status was low and His was up – physically, geographically, emotionally. I thought he might have at least thrown down some gold coins. He was wearing a crown, wasn’t he? Or was that just the sun? Perhaps a halo? Or just his own glow? And were those stallions emerging from his mouth as he let out bold, meaty puffs from his cigarette? And did they not then gallop apace up to the skies, messengers to the Gods, with news that down here on earth – in Chelsea! – there is a girl with her arm in the air, sniffing herself, and maybe, just maybe okay with it…? Surely not, reply the Gods, surely Women of Earth do not actually have a smell other than peaches? Surely those intricate nooks and complicated crevices do not spoil and mutate into something odorous and obscene? Surely their sole function is to drape those languorous limbs over velvet day-beds in some sort of sexual manner, a Titian vision – fleshy, wan, invariable and naturally floral?

But no, Gods – I could see this figure thinking half way between Heaven and Earth – no, they do not behave in the ways we thought. Get up close and they are a bit of a mess actually.