Bairbre Power: Don’t you just love it when life starts imitating art? Oh look, there I am on a Titian canvas
I was down moseying around Merrion Square last week with time to kill before an appointment with the dentist. That, in itself, is a column I want to pen because of what put me back in the dentist's chair. With an hour to spare, I doffed my hat at Oscar Wilde on the corner and headed off to spend some time in the National Gallery of Art.
The impressive gallery beside the lawn of Leinster House used to be a real haunt of mine for years, but for some inextricable reason I hadn't visited the Dublin gem for a while. Stepping in under those giant pillars, it was like going back to see a dear old friend and the sight of the long hall with the wooden parquet flooring and the distinctive smell was like getting a hug from an old pal.
Gosh, the hours we used to spend in the gallery during school days when it was our 'default' excuse to avoid something like extra Latin classes or exam revision in the library. We were regulars to the gallery because I went to school just around the corner on St Stephen's Green and a few of the girls in my class at Loreto shared a mutual interest in art, with varying degrees of actual skill. Like bees to a honeypot, we'd troop off to the Wednesday lunchtime lectures and happily abandon the horribly mundane tub of cottage cheese with peanuts (which was the in 'diet' of the moment) and race down to the gallery in our noisy wooden clogs - the height of schoolgirl alternative chic at the time. Or so we thought!