We are in a small gallery devoted to an artist I have never heard of. Gazing from the walls are rows of voluptuously lipped pre-Raphaelite women united by a common problem: keeping their robes decorously in place. I am resigned to the will of our host and embark on a dutiful examination of the brushstrokes. The children are less resigned and demand to know when we are leaving.
Then, while I am studying a damsel whose curves are inadequate mooring for her gown, I realise I can no longer hear my brood. Hastily I glance round. They are moving slowly from picture to picture gazing raptly at each. They even seem to be making notes. 'They're doing well,' beams an elderly room warden. 'So nice to see children enjoying art.'
I beam back, torn between pride and perplexity. I start to hope that our occasional dashes to the National Gallery to use the loos on London shopping trips have instilled in my twosome a sense of artistic integrity. I decide to replace our desiccated poster paints and to find fun facts on Van Gogh on Wikipedia.
As the children approach, revitalised by culture, another elderly attendant approaches. She too has been watching them benignly. 'So what did you get out of your visit?' she asks. 'Bosoms!' shouts the eight-year-old rapturously. 'We've been counting all the bare bosoms and I won 'cos I got 52!'