Thought I'd swan over the seedy side of town yesterday afternoon, and take a squiz at the Baldwin and Bushell exhibition at Gallery IOTA on the West Cliff.
Mr Bushell's rather eerie paintings appear to be selling like the proverbial hot cakes, with more red dots next to them than you'd find in a measles epidemic. Even Mr Baldwin's mechanical sculptures appear to have been well received, with his huge, rusty donger already snapped up for a few thousand smackers.
As I was toddling back I wondered if there was any way of looking around the imposing flint monastery opposite that architect Plugin's place. Overcome by curiosity, I peeked through the small grate in the door, only to jump out of my skin when a Bede-y eye peeped back. Seconds later the door opened and a very jolly Irish monk emerged for a chat.
Bearing a faint resemblance to Father Ted's friend Father Jack, the only word I could make out was "Anorak", although "Feck", "Arse", "Drink" and "Girls" may have been in there somewhere. Still, it was more enjoyable than the conversation I had with the fellow who emerged rather mysteriously from the Gents across the road brandishing a cup of tea, who tried to bludge 'a couple of quid' off me.