Sometime earlier this century the long-suffering travelling companion and I were frog-marching ourselves around Paris. We saw the Arc de Triomphe, ate snails and marvelled at Notre Dame.
At some stage we made our way to the Louvre. Now here I need to confess something. I care as much about art as I do dental hygiene. If it wasn’t for Mrs Grant I’d never trouble the atrium of an art gallery. Or floss.
Still. Here we were and we did what every tourist does when in the most famous art gallery in the world. We went to see the smiling picture painted by Mr Da’Vinci. You know the one. I don’t even need to say her name and you can picture the smile in your imagination.
There were signs pointing the way and a procession, like the queue to see Ho Chi Minh, parading in silent awe. Given my lack of interest in the subject it isn’t for me to comment on the quality of the brushwork but its cultural pull is enormous. And that is why I wanted to see it.
