Everything is going to be alright

Last week my mum Isabel came to visit me. We wandered round London and had a grand old time.  She had a really bad cold but put on a brave face  like a good sport.
I was waiting for news that could be really good or really bad so - thanks to red wine - we were also able to pretend I wasn't in a state of teenage-intense angst.

Being very no nonsense and marvellous in general, my mum wouldn't let me get too self-indulgent and bought a very large hat to wear.

I like to think this was to cheer me up, but I do of course take into consideration the sub-zero temperatures and snow.

In between watching a gypsy band at the Royal Concert Hall and going to see a play, we went to the Tate Modern.

On a laissez-faire mission to see what there was to see, we started in the Poetry and Dream galleries on the second floor. A lot of the art was strange.

Most of it I didn't really understand without reading the placarded side notes. And some of it I just stared at without seeing it properly.

 My mum said: "I hate modern art." I said: "I wish we'd gone to the Tate Britain."