My name is Susan Greenfield. I’m a neuro-scientist, based at Oxford University; I’m also a member of the House of Lords, so I come to London one day a week.

I was born in London, in Chiswick, and remember those long Sunday afternoons. This was in the 50s, when everything was closed. So you went to the park because it was cheap, and because it was something you could do on a Sunday. We’d go for walks, Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, and sometimes sail toy boats on the Long Water or the Serpentine. I have a very strong memory, of my little boat getting marooned, drifting out into the centre where no one could get at it. I was inconsolable. My Dad often recalled this incident as an example of how we change as we grow up regarding what’s important to us.

There are many species of water fowl on The Long Water: tall herons with their pointed orange beaks, and long black feathers hanging down from their heads like pigtails. White gulls are very common, mallards as well, and little black coots with their vivid white foreheads. A line of squat wooden posts runs across the water and you often get a gull on each one - all facing the same way - like a line of statues on plinths. Just here, on the grass by the side of the Long Water is another memory - and my London Landmark. It’s the statue of Peter Pan.

The statue is made of bronze, and was sculpted by Sir George Frampton RA. It was a gift from Sir James Barrie, the character’s creator, and has been here since 1912. Just the other side of the path that runs past the water’s edge, there’s a semi-circle of grass, fringed with trees and shrubs. In the centre, three concentric circles of broken-stone paving, create three steps up to the statue.

Peter Pan, the boy who would not grow up, is standing on top of a tall tree stump which I’ll describe first. It’s about 6 feet high, and gnarled, with tangled roots at the base. Like the park around it, the stump teems with wildlife: three mice poke their heads, sniffing, out of a hollow; a pair of doves perch preening on a root. Quite near the bottom, there’s a large fan-shaped fungus growing out of the stump, and a hare sits up on its hind legs, gazing over towards Long Water. A baby hare to its right looks down curiously at the tiny snail at its feet.

In amongst the animals are fairies - slim female figures around 9 inches tall, in long flowing, sleeveless dresses. Their delicate wings are slender - like a dragon-fly rather than a butterfly, and their long hair is gathered up, some in plaits, some in petal headdresses. Two sit as though emerging from within the stump: legs tucked under them, they lean, one on the other’s shoulder, looking down towards a squirrel who perches up on its hind legs as though in deep conversation with them. Three more fairies form a line, their graceful arms entwined around each other as they spiral upwards round the trunk. They lead us up towards another fairy, who stands tip-toe on a mushroom, craning up towards the figure high above them.

Peter Pan himself is like a giant compared to the fairies - standing about 4 feet tall, a mop of hair framing his round face. He looks confident up there - bestriding his universe with bare legs - his left foot stepping forward quite a long way, and his body leaning back. He wears a short tunic with a zig-zag hem and petals around the neck and shoulders. The long sleeves are fastened along their length at the back with twine. He holds his right arm out to the side. In his left hand is some kind of instrument - long, curved pipes - which he puts to his lips. He’s looking over the Long Water, but his gaze seems more distant, and we can only imagine what he’s thinking.

As a child there’s an excitement for magic and for magical things and, when I was a little girl, this statue played on that. I suppose secretly we’d all like to be Peter Pan, and not have to grow up, so there’s a resonance even now. The statue is like a monument to our nostalgia. And it’s quite ordinary - not all singing and dancing - it’s not ‘interactive’ in the way that so many things are now. It doesn’t do anything, but still feels like it must have magical properties.

The statue gets a lot of visitors, tourists having their photos taken by it, children exploring its secret nooks and crannies. The bronze surface is mostly dark brown, but gleams gold in places where little hands have touched it - the head of the tiny snail is particularly bright. It’s also sometimes used as a place of remembrance: Peter Pan, the boy who would not grow - becoming a focus for grieving parents, hanging tokens off it for their child who “would have been four”.