At the end of all this craziness, I was going to take the time to describe the date I would have taken me on, if I had been one of the 20.
But there is no need for that now, because yesterday I went on it.
The Tate Modern is one of my favourite places in the whole world. It's a huge, airy world of creativity. Nice subtle creativity. Not the kind that banging about in your head like ball bearings in a jar, confusing you entirely.
Not only did I get to re-visit this great brick friend on the edge of the Thames whom I have been neglecting of late; I got to complete a ten questioned mystery, Indiana Jones style, which had me moving from one exhibition to the next, hunting for massive mahogany three-way plugs suspended from the ceiling, and needles in Lichtenstein's haystacks. After eventually solving the ten mysteries (despite a slight stumble on the dynamic equilibrium in Mondrian's Composition C) I unlocked the secret door to level 7, which led to my kind of treasure. A table on the roof-top balcony of the Tate members only lounge with boutique beer, excellent conversation and a view straight out over the river to St Paul's.
An incredibly well thought-out and executed afternoon. It put my ideal date to shame.