Today, dear reader, I review the Tate Modern art gallery, in a cafe on the top floor of which I am currently sat overlooking the river. The dome of Saint Paul’s dominates the skyline like the hairless head of an overgrown man, his body wrought of sturdy white bricks, soft-grey wisps of cloud his hair. What a fearsome warrior such a man should be were he to be made flesh by some wizardry! Why, he would pick up cars with little more than a flick of his column-fingers. Terrified citizens would flee in terror as he approached, imagining that their miserable lives would soon be snuffed out by a blow of the man’s mighty stone fists! It is the unparalleled ability of the building to evoke such imagery in the minds of all those who stare at it that has assured its recognition as a masterpiece of architectural design.

I have opted for a fragrant cup of Indian tea, which I am taking great pleasure in supping between strokes of my fountain pen. A profoundly beige liquid, it rests within its quaint little china cup with quiet pride, evoking thoughts of misty Himalayan foothills at the break of dawn, incense, tarragon, mountain streams, butterflies, strawberries and cream on a sunny summer’s day, the Wimbledon tennis tournament, lazy Sundays spent in the company of friends, and mulled wine in the depths of winter. To my right I am pleased to notice a slightly reflective black marble wall, which though not providing the pleasure of a mirror nevertheless allows me to catch a welcome glimpse of my cheeky grin as I write.

I have spent the day wandering leisurely through the exhibitions, finding myself feeling very much at home amongst the works of the great masters. The Picasso room was particularly wonderful, his funny cubist portraits making me giggle with delight in the manliest of fashions. I found a postcard of Guernica in the shop and am convinced that I must one day make a journey to Spain to view the work in person. I am not sure of its precise significance but the way in which Picasso captures the hilarity of a cube-headed horse and a two-dimensional cartoon bull is truly quite remarkable – my stomach muscles still ache from laughing so hard. Some of the art on display, however, is certainly much-overrated. Salvador Dali, for instance, produced numerous works of monstrous stupidity. The idea of spindly-legged elephants strutting across a Martian landscape while a clock melts over their heads – is the viewer really supposed to believe that the artist witnessed such a sight?!

The main atrium of the building, too, is simply fabulous. I was able to spend a few idyllic minutes sprinting merrily up and down its sloping concrete floor, and would highly recommend the activity to anybody with time to spare. A pair of small children were foolish enough to engage me in a footrace, and were left trailing in my wake as I sped past them like a cheetah whistling through the African night. I was, however, disappointed to be interrupted by a steward who had taken exception to my repeated screams of joy.

The dining facilities are superb, also, and my toasted sandwich has gone down a treat. Picture this, dear reader, two slices of white bread, carefully resting either side of a slice of ham and a layer of melted cheddar. Presented delicately on a white china plate, accompanied by a napkin provided free of charge. Superb.

All in all, an excellent day out that I would highly recommend.