Unfortunately, I accidentally inhaled some sink unblocking fluid just before I left and, as a result, felt like I was being poisoned by the fresh air. When I got to the Tate Modern, I found myself drawn to a lowly-lit room of Mark Rothko paintings. On a normal day, I feel a bit of an affinity with Rothkos, as we got two free with our flat (originals, natch) - they're propped against the wall, one on each side of the television - but yesterday, the fuzzy, dark blocks of haze somehow particularly epitomised my mood of vague angst and physical sensations of faintness and nausea.
After a short while spent in the company of the nine paintings, I read that they were completed in the late '50s, and were influenced by Michelangelo's oppressive Laurentian Library in Florence. According to Rothko, Michelangelo "achieved just the kind of feeling I'm after - he makes the viewers feel that they are trapped in a room where all the doors and windows are bricked up, so that all they can do is butt their heads forever against the wall".
I go home and eat a couple of scones.
TV in lounge, flanked by Rothkos