|our version of Where's Wally...spot the hjh handbag. And no, it's not the yellow one|
So, it's a random Wednesday just after the schools have gone back, you're not at work today and hours of housework stretch endlessly ahead of you. Yawn. Then you get a phonecall. Can you get to Weston-Super-Mare by 11am for a couple of hours of satire and witty art appreciation? You betcha. 2 hours later and you're being accused of hiding illicit items under your poncho by a fake security officer in front of a cardboard scanning machine, whilst your sister sniggers like a ten year old behind you. And it's just started to drizzle. Welcome to Dismaland folks.
Banksy and his artist mates are geniuses. If Dismaland was a Venn diagram it would have circles labelled shocking, snortingly funny, entertaining, thought provoking and top of the class clever. I'm no art critic, but if any of the above are on the tick-list of what constitutes successful art then they've got it nailed.
And weirdly, when you leave you still feel like you're in there - you're half-expecting to see satire and irony in the ordinary. The poor bloke selling buckets and spades 50 metres along the seafront must have had some very strange looks these past few weeks.
There are only a few days left of Dismaland so if you're one of the lucky people who get the remaining tickets you're in for a very interesting experience.
Best not to wear a woolly poncho though.