Off to the National Gallery on Saturday for an 'olfactory journey' which was interesting as far it went, but turned out to be a tour of only three paintings. The lovers in The Morning Walk evoked the scent of honey and vanilla ...

Less convincing was the pungent scent of lemon (think Lemon Jif), which apparently masked the smell of death, for the memento mori in The Graham Children ...

And a damp Gainsborough landscape was petrichor although I picked up a scent of lilac leaves in the rain. Not cow manure. Well, that was fun but it only took 20 minutes so I went for a browse and quite by chance found myself in the company of The Duke - having watched the very funny film with Jim Broadbent and Helen Mirren only a few days ago.

Not the faintest hint of this painting's chequered career will you glean from its label. Stolen via an open window in the gent's, held to ransom as part of a campaign for free TV licences for OAPs, returned via a left luggage locker at Birmingham New Street ... yes, The Duke has seen life!

And quite by chance again, there in the same gallery was poor Lady Jane Grey - who featured in this book that I'd only finished reading a few days previously. I do love a story about a house - a London house, for a change, not a country house, and Rumer Godden weaves the layers of time and memory and family history very skilfully.

I was quite looking forward to seeing The Larkins, despite feeling that we didn't need another adaptation of Darling Buds of May. But aaarrgggh .... not a politically-correct, multi-cultural Larkins. Why? If HE Bates had wanted a Nigerian Charlie, that's what he'd have written! Charmless, vulgar - Joanna Scanlan is the spit of Pam Ferris, but the new Mariette doesn't come within a mile of the luscious beauty of the young Catherine Zeta-Jones and I doubt she'll end up as Hollywood royalty. I watched two episodes and doubt I'll bother with the rest. Filed away under 'only to be watched if absolutely desperate for something to do.'