Although I can remember with great clarity sitting in Tate Britain’s hallway every single year of senior school for a whole day, indeed nigh on six hours looking at the Turner Prize, I still visit exhibitions of my own volition. Sometimes I surprise myself. If I said I cried in front of a Rothko that would be a lie (seen it, also caught a man crying at the end of Titanic wearing a Cowboy hat), but whether you choose to dive into El Greco, feel repulsed by the Chapman Brothers or gorge on Matisse’s optimism there’s sure to be multiple pieces that resonate.

Going to the Saatchi Gallery last weekend reminded me of two of my favourite pieces, one was a piece I’d experienced before. The guy’s called Richard Wilson and the piece is 20:50, I won’t ruin the rest. The other was the photography of Anne Hardy, an artist who captures manipulated and staged scenes. Her work reminded me of Jeff Wall. He’s bloody brilliant. And if you get bored, the tea shops at galleries are often very good.