Another grey day as the Scottish lassies and I hied our way to Figueres to visit the Theatre Museum of Dali? which is apparently the fourth most popular tourist attraction in Spain. At least it appeared to be yesterday, we queued in light drizzle, behind a family of nylon clad Swedes, big but quiet and at our backs was one of those annoying American women, three foot tall, mouth pursed as though she was sucking on a lemon, with the lines of disapproval of the world outside Bumhole, Idaho, etched deep into the corners. she was berating her son, late teens, weedy with backpack, Woody Allen glasses and acne scars, for not wearing his wind cheater. Her voice had all the charm of a badly maintained chainsaw cutting steel, and her demeanour a lesson in why some of the citizens of the USA should be barred from Europe, and restricted to visiting Afghanistan and the more settled parts of Iraq.

The queue was entertained by an accordianist, or should I say a man with aviator glasses and an accordion on his lap which he worked like a sunday school teacher speed reading the rude bits of Lady Chatterly, as he opened and closed the bellows at random, whilst his feet danced an unrelated tattoo, as though he was teaching St Vitus how to dance. I was waiting for the instrument to start producing fountains of rainwater, it reminded me of the crude pumps set up to ventilate the tunnels in Escape from Colditz. I did not donate money, not wanting to encourage this musical prodigy, whose prowess in producing a medley of well known show tunes all played at once, may have been distracted by the rattle of coin.

We entered the portals of the museum, which Dali himself had requested be like a dream, a surreal experience of theatre. I have been before but am always amazed that there are new delights round every corner, a new buttock here, a splendidly dressed crocodile there, a breast caught in a mirror in this nook here, a crack in a crevice there.

The hordes poured through the doors, a flock of French school children uncontrolled (able?) tentatively supervised by a smoking grand-pere and a woman in a beret scratching her unshaved armpit, whilst their charges rampaged through the gallery stuffing their mouths with bread and texting each other across 3 feet of space.

The control of the German family stood out against this mayhem, two perfectly groomed kinder, a mutte with those tied up pig tail thingys, and father gently herding them from exhibit to exhibit with what looked suspiciously like a sjambok. They were allowed precisely 35 seconds to view each painting, or piece of sculpture and then proceeded to the next in step and strict order as per the catalogue. Unlike the Dutch mother and daughter, both with cheekbones like hatchets who plodded in a constant stream of argument over what photograph to take, in what order and from which angle, they were not having a happy day, you could notice the tension building to a climax which was bound to end in tears.

After my wards had made their usual four visits to the ladies (they seemed more interested in the plumbing than the pictures) and J had hinted darkly several times that she was about to inflict damage on someone unless she got a fag, we or they decided they were Dali'd out and needed lunch, i.e. liquid, so we cut short our investigation of Munro's lips and headed back to the car park, where I spent twenty minutes trying to find level -1 where the ticket machine was supposed to be located, only to find there was no level -1.

Lunch was most pleasant at La Placa and we decided that Dali was a fair old painter, C remarking that if he had a bit more imagination he would have been one of the great surrealists, but he wasn't a patch on the graffiti artists of her own dear Glasgow.

And so dear reader to home.