It’s Open House season in Brighton. Or should I say, let’s be nosy and go and marvel at someone’s cornicing. An afternoon of Open Houses for me, is like going to an art gallery except you can’t say ‘that’s crap’ too loudly and the artists, far from being dead, are normally in situ, mingling, having intense conversations about papier mache. Sometimes, they even wear their art, like the artist who had a knitted swan hanging around her neck. The highlight, apart from the £25 monkeys made out of old socks, was my local Baptist church which hadn’t quite got the right end of the Open House schtick. There was some fusty smelling needle point and a few water colours of the West Pier on fire. But my favourite bit was the grainy video of some religious nuts being water boarded in a jacuzzi, sorry, baptism bath. Well, it makes a change from fuzzy felt bonnets.