Forget the municipal galleries, with their velvet ropes and their children. The finest permanent exhibition in this city is the sill of the east facing window at 14 Pilchard Close, where a rotating programme of pigeons, one bus and a man named Gerald appears daily from 7 a.m. The curation is flawless. Nothing is explained. Everything is behind glass.
I spent four hours there on Saturday and witnessed a sparrow commit what I can only call a gesture. It landed. It looked at me. It left. I have not been so moved since the 2023 retrospective of the dropped sock. Admission is free, though I did pay in dignity, having chattered at the glass like a common amateur.
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