The last time that I left London, I did so under a cloud, in the rain, thinking “I say we pull back and nuke the site from orbit, it’s the only way to be sure.”

I’m quite liking it this time. There seems to be spring and prosperity in the air. The Tate modern hadn’t been built then, and it was one of the first places that I went after I arrived on Tuesday. My second visit was today.

I didn’t attempt to see the whole thing, just to fully explore the top floor. It’s amazing how much I missed the first time.

My favorites were the huge mural made of river mud, splashing down like a black-and-white waterfall, and opposite it Monet’s waterlilies. The inverted piano, that as I walked closer, suddenly sprang open with a jarring polyphony of loose keys. Damien Hirst's Pharmacy and his seashell collection.

The urinal, a replica of Duchamp’s, is still eliciting confused outrage from ignorant passers-by. He's still taking the piss.

After that I went to Oxford street, to buy a suit. I will hopefully be interviewing next week, and this is essential equipment. The job-acquisition process grinds on.

While fitting the suit, in a small room with many mirrors, I was able to catch a glimpse of the back of my head. There is a small patch were the hair is not only thinning, but almost entirely absent, the pink scalp showing through. It strikes me as odd that I have been walking around, unknowingly presenting this to the world for a while now. My self-image is under review, and I am contemplating Rogaine.