London is inexhaustible; there's always somewhere that you never knew about containing something you had never heard of.

Surely that's the truest of truisms especially for those of us who live in and love the 'Smoke'. And it is forever governed by that unwritten law that stipulates that whatever it is you did n't know about is right under your feet.

A combination of circumstances led me to find the Curve Gallery which I'd passed more times than I can remember heading in and out of the Barbican, but never spotted. Eyes, where are you sometimes?

It's an apt name for the gallery, curvy, rather womb-like in a way, and with big broad walls that all galleries deserve.

The shape does n't matter, however, it's what's inside that mesmerised me: several dozen free ranging Zebra finches, flashing by at head height and squeaking like little rubber chew toys, landing on the craziest, most unorthodox perches I've ever come across - plugged in Gibson lead and Bass guitars and inverted Paiste crash cymbals.

Every birds foot that grazes a guitar string makes a glorious accidental twang, in some cases eerily close to a bar or two of something faintly recognisable. It's like being in a room full of wind chimes, and all of them ringing unexpectedly.

The whole spectacle is a joy full of whimsy, chance, a gloriously bold, madcap conceit; as a friend wrote to me, it's probably the best way in which Humans, Nature, Technology and Art can work together. She's been five times, so that's not a casual observation.