It's a bright warm summer day in the middle of July. You're walking through an English garden somewhere in London and there in the middle of a flower bed stands "the Master of Suspense" himself. It's his day off and like all other Londoners, Sir Alfred Hitchcock is enjoying the rare sunshine with a hope of getting some tan. Like all cultivated fashionistas.
To be honest I have no idea how Hitchcock spent his day off but what are the odds of that? Anyhow, I find the described scenario quite intriguing. In my head, I associate Mr Hitchcock with a black and white world full of long shadows and dramatic background music. Naturally, the idea of him standing in a flower bed surrounded by dazzling colours seems to be a paradox – a contradiction not suitable for this world.