I was so unenthused by the Sickert exhibition at Tate Britain that when I got back I checked the reviews and sure enough, it seems I should have enjoyed a “hellish, brilliant” (Jonathan Jones, Guardian, 5*), “riveting” (Laura Cumming, Observer, 4*), “marvellously comprehensive” (Melanie McDonagh, Evening Standard, 5*), “stunning, captivating” (Eddy Frankel, Time Out, 5*) exhibition.

It wasn’t that I found the pictures seedy or shocking, which seems to be a common reaction, just that only two, maybe three, of them made me want to look twice. Most of the reviews refer to his relationships with and influence on other artists, so perhaps it’s the context I’m missing. But I went with my mum, who has indexed a book on Sickert, and she felt much the same.

Afterwards I went prowling round the strange bit of Oxford Street/Soho where the Photographer's Gallery is. Loads of people out with cameras; loads of people being photogenic (extra). Or did we all just imagine that?

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