'To see the rose and woodbine twine'

There is nowhere on the planet I'd rather be this week than right where I am.

Some of London's trees are already fully leafed while others are weighed down with fragrant buds. I'm so glad that I'm taking care of the Balderstone's cat this week, as it affords me the justification of long luxurious walks up and down Holland Park Avenue in the mornings and evenings: walking under the stately trees and nodding at the butchers, wine merchants, baristas, bakers, and of course the unabashedly posh people who have nothing better to do than continue reading Le Monde and have just one more of those sublime croissants with the second macchiato of the morning.

It's not merely the idea of living in one of the beautiful shaded homes of Holland park with their gated gardens and ideal locations that seduces, but the surreal lifestyle; not the promise of unrestrained materialism that beckons, though this is not without its temptations, but the idealistic promise of the comfortable, cultured, guiltless pursuit of familial and intellectual pleasures. Who are these people? And who are they kidding? Me?

And, abrubtly, I revert to Hume (the exam countdown continues). I must wait for this evening's stroll and resume considerably less soothing matters such as whether synthetic a priori propositions are knowable. If I go out, kite flying might seem much more important.

Extra points if you can guess the title reference.