Tate Britain.

Today I met my auntie at the Tate Britain, where we visited the Francis Bacon exhibition. Standing among the scribbling art students and the casual observers, I spent much of my time listening to the loud, pretentious commentary of an amateur art critic, whose over-zealous attempts to explain the works of art to her elderly companion, filled the air more strongly than the smells of age-old paint and sweat. Eventually, when her painting-by-every single painting analysis became too much I switched on my hand-held guide and quilted her noise in the words of others.

Later, we ate lunch at a smart pizza restaurant in Covent Gardens, before heading over to Leicester Square, where we met up with my auntie's friend. My original plan of leaving after saying a quick hello gradually disintegrated into staying for hot chocolate and enjoyable conversation and it wasn't until some two and a bit hours later that I made my way back to New Cross. (: So now to write some very quick, very profound poetry. Wish me luck.