Ancient masters, a world of magic, a place of great mystery. Here walls hang with the beauties of centuries past, transcending time and place. Stately rooms that belong to me, (during opening hours), and as darkness falls and the shadows lengthen, I wish I could linger longer. Each painting tells a tale, thousands of brush strokes in oil, the works of a thousand geniuses, filled with pain and longing and fervour. Christ on the Cross, face etched in unnatural agony, a Parisian Sunday in summer, light blue skies and a whiff of objectification, as woman pout and pose. A few steps takes me hundreds of miles south, to the sunflower fields of Provence, hot and sensual and spicy. On Fridays the National Gallery stays open till late. This is my favourite time, when the crowds vanish and the ghosts begin to awaken.