Coffee in hand, I join the queue for day seats at the National.
Tickets purchased I go to the National Bookshop - picking up a couple of Kneehigh plays for my extended essay - as one of the Booksellers jokes about August: Osage County being known as the Sausage Play.
I wander down the South Bank as the incredibly blue sky makes everything seem just a little bit more beautiful.
Into the Tate Modern - there's what appears to be some sort of spider-esque contraption in the Drill Hall - where I wander, not really understanding much of the painting, but finding a beautiful Barbara Hepworth statue - named Orpheus - which entrances me.
To the pub by the Globe, where I read and listen to the conversations of tourists.
Back down the South Bank - with enough time to browse through the bookstalls outside the National.
To the Lyttleton, where the set is like a giant doll's house, and where there is a moment of such utter delight within August that, just for a moment, I lose my heart to it.
Night descending on the South Bank - the trees are lit up with strings of fairy lights which twinkle and make me feel like I've stepped into an elaborate film set.
On to the Cottesloe, wine, ice cream and the new David Hare play.
Home by 11.30pm and a little more in love with London.