Ok, I have a confession to make.

Until a week ago, I had got to the ripe old age of *cough, cough* thinking that Joan Miro was a woman.

I never met him, nor heard his name said out loud, and merrily went about my life thinking he was a woman called Joan.

Then a week ago I heard his name said out loud for the first time and it stopped me in my tracks.

Was I the only person who didn't know this?

How stupid was I?

Fast-forward a week and I'm in the middle of a great day out with Kate Mckinnon at the Tate Modern when she mentions Miro.

Immediately my mind thinks "How stupid would she think I was if she knew I thought he was a woman called Joan?"

So I keep my mouth shut.

Then Kate says something amazing along the lines of "Until a year ago I thought he was a woman called Joan"

Once I had pulled myself up off the floor, I realised that sometimes you're not the only person who got something wrong and even if you were, so what?

So my lessons of the day are 1- Miro was a man, 2- getting things wrong is not wrong.

Imagine if both Kate and I had kept our Miro shame to ourselves, and gone about our lives never confessing to the simple error?

Would it have mattered in the great scheme of things? No, but thinking I am the only one who gets things wrong is a mistake I commonly make and I need to store these little reminders and learn to cast aside that fear.

Revelations aside, today was another great day out in London with Kate.

When I woke this morning I was convinced I could hear rain and dreaded wandering in the wet. I didn't want anything to spoil the good mood that has spread over London these last few days.

But I needn't have worried, the sun was out, and coatless I left the house looking forward to a touristy day.

First up was a trip to the London Eye. I had visited here back in 2000 and had wanted to go back ever since, so when Kate suggested it I leapt at the chance.

It was a perfect day for it too, with the sun beaming in and the view over London uninterrupted by cloud or rain. The sights were spectacular and I even managed to forget my terror of heights for once.

When we were up high, Kate pointed out an amazing spire and asked me what it was. I had to admit I had no idea, but took a photo and knew I would soon have to attempt to replicate it in beads!

Next up was a river-side walk past the Southbank (I got to point out to Kate the place where I passed many happy hours of my mis-spent youth admiring skateboarders) down to the Tate Modern, one of my favourite places in the world.

I love coming here every year to see the new exhibit in the Turbine Hall but this year was a disappointment. The artwork, "Sunflower Seeds 2010", was originally designed so that you would walk on the 100 million ceramic, identical, sunflower seeds but due to health and safety this is no longer allowed.

Instead you get to go near them and feel frustrated that you can't run your hands through them or feel them under your toes.

Fortunately the day got better with a fun wander through all the galleries, a delicious long lunch looking out over London and admiring cranes  and a trip to the shop where I treated myself to a book on Liza Lou, a great green ring (which you can see matches my favourite shoes) a book with an unmentionable title and a guide to Secret London.

Kate kindly bought me the "GO" sign and I will treasure it and attempt to adopt it as a personal mantra.

Fed, both physically and mentally, we walked over the Millennium Bridge to the north side of the river and began to wend our way towards Tower Bridge.

The sun was still shining, and we were in no rush, as we enjoyed the sights and the architecture and even some great contrails.

By the time we got to The Tower of London it was too late to go in, so instead we checked out the shop and sat in the sun watching the river and the world go by whilst we planned our next move and soaked up the atmosphere and history of our environment.

Then it was a walk across Tower Bridge, back along the river side past the Golden Hinde, The Clink Museum and through Borough Market (stopping for a look in Southwark Cathedral) until we found the perfect pub, The George Inn (a favourite haunt of Charles Dickens!) for fish and chips and a pint of ale before heading home to rest and recover.

Once Kate had got off the tube I stayed on and read my newspaper only to discover the mysterious spire (St Brides)  featuring in a photo and short article. Any other day I would have read the article and it would have had no resonance with me.

Today it added the pefect end to a great day.

So now you can all confess: who thought Miro was a woman and never knew they were called contrails?!