Of all the places to find a ferret

WE'RE a blasé lot, we Londoners, and it takes something pretty special to halt us in our tracks, but an albino ferret on a lead in the middle of the city is a bit of a traffic stopper. Or would be if traffic were still allowed outside the National Gallery.

The ferret - let's call him Freddie - was having a good old fossick on the raised green lawn outside the gallery. "Can I stroke him?" I asked his middle-aged male owner. "Go ahead," he said, "he's a real softy."

And he was. Sleek, sweet-smelling and friendly, though a bit on the fidgety side. I expect he'll settle down on your lap to snooze through Swiftly Come Dancing but out in the open air surrounded by luscious, pungent niffs he was itching to get back to them. Nevertheless, he inspected me with his little pink eyes and politely snuffled my palm. I stroked his long white back and damn near fell in love with him.

His owner has 12 more at home, all rescue animals. "Do they catch rabbits?" I asked.

"We live in the city," he said. "They wouldn't know a rabbit if one jumped on top of them. They're not interested in rabbits."

Not interested in rabbits? I thought that's what ferrets were for. Eddie Grundy's on The Archers are rabbit-killing machines, though with a tendency to go Awol - rather like their master. But it turns out that ferrets have been domesticated for at least a thousand years and are the perfect household pet.

I haven't seen one up close since I saw Sylvester McCoy put three down his trousers at the Theatre Royal Stratford East a hundred years ago and at the time he gave the impression it was a feat of great daring. (At the end of the show we all trooped outside onto some wasteland and watched him set fire to his head, which in retrospect was a lot riskier.)

Anyway, now that I've seen how pet-like ferrets are, I'm trying to banish the unworthy thought that as soon as 17-year-old, three-legged supermog Jimmie goes to the great killing field in the sky, I could have a dainty little ferret instead.

Part of me still has to be convinced the whole episode wasn't a Pinewood Studios stroll-through, though. While I was bonding with Freddie there was a trio of Chelsea pensioners in full red dress uniform working the crowd to my right. A white ferret and three Chelsea pensioners within three yards of each other - how likely is that?

But on reflection, it was just a slice of London life on an average Friday morning.

Titian's Diana and Actaeon, National Gallery

Wonderfully sensual and absorbing - a bargain at £50 million. Britart millionaires should have a whip-round and save it for the taxpayer.

Let's Talk About the Rain

Agnès Jaoui's charming film about French lives in turmoil. Why can't the British make films like this, which are funny despite everyone keeping their clothes on?