The Centre Pompidou

It's very rare that an exhibition will move me to pull my own teeth out, but something I saw in Paris had me reaching for the pliers and methylated spirits in desperation.

Having been sleeping (and I use that word in it's loosest possible sense) on friends sofas and floors for the best part of two months, the scouser had taken me out of London for the weekend. A last ditch effort by him I think to drag me away from stress and sharp objects for a few days.

It worked, and despite the fact that it had been raining chats and chiens solidly since we got there, I was feeling like a new (or only slightly used) woman.

We ducked into The Pompidou ostensibly to wring the rain water out of our clothes, shoes and hair. Once inside it was bafflingly unclear what was going on. After queuing to get inside, queuing for tickets and queuing to get into the collection proper, the warm glow from being taken as 26 by a surly gallery assistant, had diminished somewhat.

The permanent collection was assembled in a succession of huge rooms, with the warmth and loveliness of a Ukranian aircraft hangar. The place reminded me of Frieze, but more impersonal and without the sandwiches.