I couldn't walk past an art gallery without 'paying a visit.' Maybe it's a hangover from childhood when nobody ever walked past a church without dropping in.

When I stopped by the National Gallery a few days ago, it wasn't with any specific intention of seeing this exhibition. But when I wandered through, I found myself in a bubble of peace and calm on what was rather a scratchy and bad-tempered day. Even the security guard told me how uplifting he found it to sit there all day ...

And needless to say, even though it's free to get in, there were hardly any visitors because 500 year-old Italian altarpieces don't attract crowds.

I'm ashamed to think how often I've scooted past them with barely a glance. It's the domestic, human details that move me most ... a servant with a towel flung over her shoulder boiling water for a baby's birth, or testing the temperature of bathwater with her hand; a pair of shoes kicked off before an altar; the harassed and worried look on a priest's face as he supervises the exhumation of a saint; a strand of hair combed over a bald head. It was like being in a dark, Italian church, hearing a distant chanting of monks (I never thought I'd approve of background music in an art gallery but this time it works) and I sat there until closing time when I was the last one there and they had to throw me out.

It was such a chilly holiday weekend that fish and chips on the beach turned into fish and chips in a bus shelter with a sea view.

And then I visited the local museum to get out of the wind.

I'm not very keen on these papier-mâché creatures by Julie Arkell... too whimsical and fey for me. (Okay, I admit, I'm the one gasping, "£60 for a papier mâché toadstool!"

Why would you even want a papier mâché toadstool?)

But they are part of a little exhibition of local people's favourite toys ... and I was rather more charmed by a display of battered old teddy bears, kissed half to death, and dolls' houses made by clever dads. That reminded me of a bungalow made by my clever grand-dad for Christmas, 1960. I wonder whatever happened to it.

Doesn't this simply zing with colour? When I pulled this card from its envelope this morning I was completely bowled over ...

And to think the real thing covers 15 canvases. (That's nine feet tall x 20 feet wide, if I've converted the cms correctly.)

What clever timing ... a big David Hockney exhibition is due to open in the dankest, horriblest part of the year, right at the end of January, when if it's anything like last year, this blaze of glorious colour will be exactly what I need to raise my spirits. The painting is Winter Timber, 2009. Nice to have something to look forward to.

There was a big bowl of homemade soup,

A blackberry clafoutis with lots of cream,

And a good singalong film on TV.

But it's not my idea of an August weekend.

We're rolling far too quickly into autumn.

I have never enjoyed the company of wizards, and although I was initially charmed by Harry Potter, it was the world of Hogwarts and owls and Diagon Alley that I enjoyed, and I got more and more bored with him as he became increasingly embroiled with his arch-enemy Voldemort.

There is no way on earth that I would have read A Wizard of Earthsea had it been suggested by anybody else but Cornflower.

I tried, I hope I came to it with an open mind ... but, oh dear, this was a very tedious wizard. At least it was shorter than Lord of the Rings. And, if nothing else, it was interesting to see where JK Rowling has borrowed from Ursula Le Guin ... Hogwarts, I see, wasn't the first school for wizards even if its teachers are rather more fun. And the Wizard's evil nemesis bears more than a passing resemblance to He Who Must Not Be Named.

But I won't be sending a Howler to Cornflower as while I was (unusually for me) in the children's library, next to the Wizard in alphabetical order I found Madeleine L'Engle's SF fantasy book A Wrinkle in Time.

I hadn't come across it as a child and I've thoroughly enjoyed it, especially Mrs Who, Mrs Which and Mrs Whatsit (although I'd be fascinated to hear Cornflower's friend Dark Puss's take on the physics!).

So thanks to Cornflower ... in a roundabout way, you've scored another hit!

I always thought that Mrs Miniver's Daughter ran a respectable blog.

For a small but refined readership.

I hope I didn't disappoint the person who was searching for a blond bare trollop losing her virginity.

They might find this old-fashioned novel by Noel Streatfeild rather tame.

Although it was a bit racier than Ballet Shoes.

This week, I've been reading one Persephone book that was a complete delight from start to finish.

And another that completely bored me.

I was enchanted by a visit to this royal residence which is still a favourite summer weekend hideaway for the Queen.

The mausoleum where Queen Victoria is buried was closed but in the royal burial ground, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor lie separated from the other graves - as if most of the family deceased still aren't speaking to them. I was fascinated by all the sentimental plaster casts of Queen Victoria's children and by Queen Mary's horrendous collection of geegaws that you wouldn't look twice at in a charity shop. (Unfortunately, the family museum - which I imagine is really fascinating - is private.)

But for those who care about tea and cake, I am sorry to say that although the setting is lovely, the tea (in paper cups!) and the very boring cake was a letdown, and Her Majesty is letting the side down. My royal tea and scones did not meet my usual high standards.