Picture this, if you will. It’s the Saturday of the extended public-holiday Jubilee weekend in London, June 1st, the day before England’s first World Cup game against Sweden, and what seems like the first real day of summer. Emerging from the shade of London Bridge tube station into the heat of the midday sun, you navigate your way to the river and then head East, Tower Bridge as backdrop, towards Shad Thames, where in years gone by warehouses bursted at the seams with tea, raisins, spices and other exotic goods.

To the cool white interior of the Design Museum, and the exhibition on Gio Ponti, the acclaimed Italian architect and designer. Not riveting viewing (the Domus magazine covers are the most eye-catching piece), but you read the explanations, striving to widen your horizons and, having given it your best shot, you head upstairs. The museum’s small display on important materials in design, and the exhibiton of the innovative pieces of furniture design of French brothers Ronan and Erwan Boroullec, are somewhat more interesting. Strolling along their row of classic chairs, you note the explanation of how one in particular ‘can be picked up with one finger’, but the grandiose views afforded over the Thames distract your attention.

It’s time to move on, drawn as if by a magnet, back into the fierce light refracting off the brackish waters. You head West now, this time sticking as close to the river as physically possible without Spiderman-ing the river-facing sides of the buildings. Rounding a corner, the remains of Winchester Palace stun with their Italianate beauty, the roadside café a scene from Florence – how is it that you’d never seen this before?

On, and you stumble across another treasure, this time rather more recent in construction. Banksy, the prolific stencil graffiti artist (if you’ve been to Cargo on Rivington Street you should have noticed another of his works, directly across the road from the entrance), has thrown-up two massive pieces –‘Chequebook vandalism’ – no idea what this is about but it looks cool - and a piece on the boarded up arches directly round the corner consisting (appropriately) of two of the Queen’s guards and a craftily official-looking notice that 'This wall is a designated graffiti area'.

Turning to stroll past beer-swilling, pink-turning, UV-loving patrons of the adjacent riverside pub, you set your sights on the violet-tipped stack of the gargantuan Tate Modern to the West – you’ve booked a late viewing of the Picasso Matisse exhibition. With time to spare you purchase a ticket to view the works of the Finnish artist Eija-Liisa Ahtila, also on at the Tate. The videos and photos are poignant and moving, touching upon issues of mental and family discord. Rushing through, you fight your way into and through the crowds gawping at the creations of Pablo and Henri, taking time to read the brilliantly informative explanations of the relationships between the works and lives of these two giants of art history. Having overdosed on painterly knowledge, you climb the ramp-like lobby, shards of light puncturing the ceiling and punching through the air ahead of you, and find yourself expelled, outside again.

The sun lower in the sky, the shadows longer on the ground, you continue your Westward journey. The South Bank proper now, along the tree-lined promenade in front the National Theatre, past the Concert Halls, the picnic table -fronted NFT and book market closing for another day, the Hayward Gallery perched impenetrably above, and skilfully traverse the maze-like route back to another edificial behemoth, Waterloo station. You dive into the echoing depths, a sensation of calm pervading your mood, quietly happy, for no reason other than having come a little closer to decoding the enigma of London’s character.