Ido not, if I can help it, catch a train to anywhere on a Sunday. Yet there I was at 9.14 a.m. heading out from Woodbridge in Suffolk towards Cambridge to view a painting by Walter Sickert, a work I had not seen before and whose vital statistics – what even the work was of – I had no way of knowing; its owner had refused to send a photograph or describe it over the telephone.

Arriving at the owner’s address, I was met by a neighbour who told me that in the name of letting go and embracing surprise, they had decided to visit a relative in Scotland the night before.

A one-on-one with such a beautiful, personal painting is a very special experience

In common with tens of thousands of other art works, rare books, furniture, glassware, silverware and what might be classified as objets d’art,

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