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I’m not a massive reader of poetry but I’d pick Norman MacCaig as my favourite. Not sure about his bronze bust in the Portrait Gallery though. Apparently, “its organic form suggests that MacCaig's head is either emerging from, or returning to, primary matter”. The Three Oncologists don’t seem too sure about it either.

After dropping Joe off at work and picking up Mrs Smith’s watch I was hoping to have a gallery day. But the fatigue thing stopped me in my tracks and I grabbed a coffee instead and headed back home.