“French impressionism...I thought that meant there would be a mime.”

It is comments like these I would have to choke down if I was going to trick women into thinking I was an art-lover.

When I was younger few words struck fear into my heart more than “art gallery”.

“Museum”, “exhibition” and “library” are the only ones that may have pipped it. That is not to say I am a complete philistine, but from a young age I always feared there was a lot of unwarranted smug posing and intellectual muscle-flexing in the art community.

My slight aversion was not improved by years of squabbling with housemates who refused to let me put up my favoured pieces of art, which include kittens in socks or small children being taught to fly a kite in a meadow.

However, showing an interest might bolster my reputation as a cultured, artistic type; even better, this is sometimes mistaken for intelligence.

I have always dreamed of being referred to as a buff in some area – why not an art buff?

The main benefits seem to be you are qualified to read and understand poetry, wear tweed and might become extremely important about a hundred years after you starve to death.

Also, if you ever feel threatened by someone with a useful job you can shout, “Do you actually know anything about Picasso, little man?”

If my degree in literature has qualified me for nothing else – and it hasn’t – it is to fraudulently pass myself off among the intelligentsia.

Therefore, armed with a beginner’s guide to art, I enrolled myself on a tour of the famous galleries of northern France. I have to admit many of the paintings I saw during my tour of Normandy were breathtaking and I didn’t get the anger nose bleed that often accompanies a visit to the Tate Modern.

On this trip, I got the chance to stand in the exact position where master pieces like Monet’s Water Lilies were painted.

By insisting on having my photo taken here and manipulating the conversation somewhat, I did get the slight thrill of hearing a sexy American repeatedly refer to the Monet shot I had requested. With her hair cut short, she was like a less crazy, more spankable Winona Ryder.

The most troubling art display I have ever seen was a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibition featuring frontal nudity – male nudity: wrong nudity.

I think I felt awkward because I wasn’t sure if it was acceptable to blush like a schoolgirl or try to convince my foxy companion that dimensions were greatly exaggerated with mirrors and trick photography.