It was an early start to my Sunday – well when I say early I don’t meant the horrific early of a schoolday. But I had a rehearsal.

It went OK. Getting into the character of a dour east European roadsweeper isn’t too much of a stretch. Seeing as I am a creature of the evening, the earlier in the day, the more sombre my mood.

Afterwards I toddled over to KIlmainham where I hoped to go on a guided tour of the old jail – sadly it was fully booked, so instead we crossed the road to the Royal Hospital – an old soldier’s hospital set in very beautiful gardens. It now houses IMMA – the Irish Museum of Modern Art.

I am quite a fan of museums. But in small doses. If I go on a weekend away my trips to galleries and museums tend to happen on days where there is rain. It’s not that I don’t appreciate arts or culture, but some of these places are so vast, that they are overwhelming and I get an urge to run to the nearest cinema and watch the cheesiest blockbuster. That’s why the photography museum called FOAM in Amsterdam is my favourite museum – it is small enough that you can see the exhibitions in the space of a hour.

Places like the Louvre, while massively impressive leave me feeling like a philistine – I get bored and want to leave.

I used my powers of persuasion to convince my friend that what we needed to do was to sit in the sun and drink a coffee. It worked. I pushed my luck and asked if we should have another coffee. Not everyone is as basic as I am, and some people who go to places of culture want to see the exhibitions. I conceded defeat and in we went.

The exhibition was by a forgotten, but recently rediscovered realist painter called Patrick Hennessy – a painter from Cork who died in 1980. Despite my initial reluctance I was impressed by his work – the fact that much of his work focused on the gay underground world of the mid 20th century may have helped. The warning about explicit imagery was printed in bold at the entrance.

It’s not explicit. It’s ART, I thought smugly to myself.

I made my way home and en route discovered my lack of jacket. My lovely, brown, corduroy jacket. My friend told me that I wasn’t wearing a jacket when I met him.

Aha – it must be at the rehearsal space. I hopped on a tram and reached my destination five minutes before closing.

No jacket. Where is it? I really cannot say. I suspect I may have left it on the back of the seat where I sat outside, in the museum, congratulating myself on having dodged the need to attend the actual museum.

If I had been more cultured and less like Phil Collins, I would still be in possession of my lovely cord jacket.

I guess phonecalls will be made tomorrow.