The museums of London are just like those kids in the playground who no one wanted to play with. These little fellas were so desperate to attract play mates they would have done just about anything to make themselves popular. If you ever wondered what happened to these sad things you can tune in and watch them on Big Brother.
I make this comparison to museums after my recent visit to the V&A. I should say upfront that the V&A is my favourite of all the London museums. Admittedly for an entirely unscholarly reason: the homemade beef pies in the café. The fact that they have resorted to baking us treats should tell you that they are a tad on the desperate side for friends. Baking is the adult version of doing someone else’s homework. I must also admit I wasn’t opposed to it then and I am certainly not opposed to it now.
It isn’t just the pies, which gives away the museum's desperation.
The museums are in an unusually tricky situation, most of the great unwashed British general public go to the museums because they are free. I don’t judge as we have already established I go for the baked goods.
In the face of economic downturn back in the 1980’s the British government managed to democratise culture, art and history. It was as if Marie Antoinette’s ghost was their financial advisor; ‘Let them eat cake Prime Minister.’ Or in this case pies. Let the Londoners go to galleries and they will forget that they can’t afford bread and milk. If the working classes survived their impoverished childhoods they grew up with a very well informed opinion on whether modern day architecture is influenced most by the Greeks or by the Romans. This is incredibly useful if you get stuck for something to say to the person next to you in the benefits queue outside the Post Office on a Monday morning.
So after years of telling people that museums are free, or in other words, ‘I’ll pay you to be my friend and hang out with me’, it is then very difficult to be taken seriously. This is despite housing some of the most magnificent wonders in the world, such as my beloved pie and various other priceless artefacts.
The first sign that the V&A is desperate for friends is the decision to have a donation box at the front entrance. Their first mistake is using the word ‘voluntary.’ Not just because most people walk straight past it without putting their hands in their pockets but because most people born of the X (Factor) generation cannot pronounce such a big word, let alone know what it means.
I watch as everyone walks past the sad little empty box, everyone except for the people who seem least likely to be able to afford to make a donation: an elderly man and woman who has a bible hanging out of her handbag (circa 1973.) Maybe they didn’t read the sign outside, took one look at the architecture and thought they were walking into a church. I watch the same couple put £1 into the box for a museum map. I hope by this stage that they have realised that they are not in a church and that they are not buying a map to heaven, but rather to the men’s room.
The security bag search is also somewhat on the pathetic side. I walked in with a relatively large bag, not only because I am a woman and my gender mandates it, but because I am also carrying a laptop and more shopping than I expected to lug around London on a Saturday afternoon. Behaviour also mandated by my gender. I sling my bag on the table in front of the security guard begging to be searched. I take some pleasure in disappointing security workers by not carrying corrosives. The security guard takes one look at the bag, then at me and says, ‘No, it’s OK.’ I again was left with the impression that he didn’t want to stretch my friendship with the museum too far. OK, his leniency may have been influenced by me looking like a walking Gap ad rather than a threat to national security.
Once inside, like most visitors, I headed straight for the museum gift shop. Why look at a Venetian fresco when you can look at a Venetian fresco reproduced on a tea towel?
The shop itself takes up a significant part of the ground floor. I can just see the architect saying to the Director of the museum, ‘Now if you want the punters to come, you will have to give them a reason to hang around. I suggest we downsize the Chinese Pottery section in favour of a wall to house overpriced pretentious postcards.’ Never mind the centuries of priceless artefacts, the pencil sharpener in the shape of a pyramid will be a bigger hit and make us more popular with the cool kids.
Perhaps the most obvious sign that the museums are desperate for friends is the instruction printed on my map (the one I didn’t pay £1 for): ‘Please keep mobile phone use to a minimum.’ Only to a minimum? If there is one place on the planet where you should live in fear of phone confiscation it is a museum. Especially a museum that looks a little bit like a church. But at the V&A they don’t want to rock the boat, so you and your phone can roam freely and piss off as many people as you want, just as long as you hang out there a little bit longer. I long to experiment whether you can also talk with your mouthful and run with scissors in here.
Admittedly my beloved V&A doesn't come across as desperate as the Science Museum: on a Friday night they serve cocktails. I can only assume that this came out of a brainstorm where the thing most commonly associated with science for most people was being drunk in the back row of the science lab, after testing, and re testing the beaker labelled ‘100% alcohol.’
As I head to leave this particular Saturday I smile sympathetically at the two women standing in a booth near the exit. They are selling memberships to the V&A. How silly do they think I am? Actually maybe the last laugh is on me: my pie was £6.99. Maybe like all the geeky kids at school they will end up millionaires.
Sunday, 19 April 2009
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Just like in the movies
The sight of two grown men scampering up to a rooftop for some sunshine epitomised the reason why the rest of the planet felt sorry for the residents of London. Well that and fact that they seemed to be impressed by whatever it is that Peter Andre does. It also made 'Notting Hill' a damn amusing film and in turn one of the biggest hits of the 1990’s. ‘How sad.’ I thought at the time to have to sit on a rooftop to get a suntan. Cut to 14 years later and that same judgemental woman is cozying up along side the duck pond in Hyde Park, complete with hat, gloves and scarf, trying to catch some much needed sunshine on her pale face. The Japanese tourists sitting next to me burst into fits of giggles when I tried to subtly slip off the bench and test whether the ground was too waterlogged to sit on. I sprung up with such haste that they checked under the bench to see if a duck had bitten my bottom.
Until I moved to London I hadn’t given much thought to the true meaning of the phrase ‘catch sunshine.’ To catch something means that you in effect trap it in an attempt to hang onto it for a period of time. So I use the expression to explain my behaviour today very deliberately. Today I am among thousands of Londoners who have flocked to the park having made our first sun sitting in months. It is no longer a mystery to me why the ancient Druids worshipped the sun: it appears so infrequently here it does take on mystical qualities.
We modern day sun worshippers have carried around our faith for the last few months waiting for a sign. When it comes we behave very much like super sized kitchen plant: leaning to one side to catch the sun’s rays. In winter we lean towards Gregg’s the baker. Their pasties are not a reliable source of vitamin D but they do provide a certain amount of solace from not only the lack of sun, but from Sky’s decision to run ‘The Vicar of Dibley’ yet again.
In the search for sunshine we will lean towards to park, towards the Thames or towards any open space that can accommodate us. It suddenly becomes possible to get a seat in the pubs, but not so easy to get to them, as all the regulars have moved outside and are invariably standing in front of the door.
We hibernate like bears through the winter. We venture out only to perform the most essential of tasks. Anything trivial such as socialising and exercise grinds to a halt until the summer months. Eating however doesn’t grind to a halt, in fact in most cases it increases significantly. The increased food consumption helps us store fat which gives us a little something extra to live on when it gets so dark and cold that you can’t even be bothered to go out and buy food. If you have eaten enough Gregg’s and bar snacks you can delay that overwhelming cold trip to the supermarket as long as your personal supply of blubber lasts.
As I sit here I notice a phenomenon even rarer than the sun itself. The people walking past me have their lips parted and the corners of their mouths are upturned on either side. They appear to be doing something that Londoners rarely do: they are smiling. Some of them are doing it as though they are little uncomfortable with the new placement of their lips. Some look like they may be doing it for the first times in their lives and some look they are practising, but aren’t quite competent enough to go pro yet with it.
A visitor to London in winter could be forgiven for thinking that years of evolution had rid the locals of their teeth. You can go months without seeing a set. The sun changes this. When I left home this morning my next-door neighbour was sitting on her garbage bin reading the Saturday papers in the sun. She looked happier than she had in months, so I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was awoken last night by a couple of young guys relieving themselves against that the same garbage bin.
The Japanese couple next to me are discussing how friendly they think the locals are. If only they knew what the locals were like the rest of the time. Maybe it didn’t matter, maybe it was just wonderful that this couple will go back to Japan and speak of the friendly English folk in sunny London town. I know how warming it is when people go out of their way to be friendly to you in a new country.
As I am questioning whether I may have been wrong about the humanity in London the couple stand up with their camera in hand. They approach a passing man to take a photograph of them with the gaggle of the ducks that they have been feeding a prawn sandwich from Prêt. The man they approach for help doesn’t so much as stop. He continues walking and shakes his head at them. Under is breath he mutters, ‘fucking tourists.’ Ah, thank god, I was worried that too much ‘Vicar of Dibley’ had thawed the hearts of Londoners. We need a little bit of hatred here; it makes the traffic flow faster.
Until I moved to London I hadn’t given much thought to the true meaning of the phrase ‘catch sunshine.’ To catch something means that you in effect trap it in an attempt to hang onto it for a period of time. So I use the expression to explain my behaviour today very deliberately. Today I am among thousands of Londoners who have flocked to the park having made our first sun sitting in months. It is no longer a mystery to me why the ancient Druids worshipped the sun: it appears so infrequently here it does take on mystical qualities.
We modern day sun worshippers have carried around our faith for the last few months waiting for a sign. When it comes we behave very much like super sized kitchen plant: leaning to one side to catch the sun’s rays. In winter we lean towards Gregg’s the baker. Their pasties are not a reliable source of vitamin D but they do provide a certain amount of solace from not only the lack of sun, but from Sky’s decision to run ‘The Vicar of Dibley’ yet again.
In the search for sunshine we will lean towards to park, towards the Thames or towards any open space that can accommodate us. It suddenly becomes possible to get a seat in the pubs, but not so easy to get to them, as all the regulars have moved outside and are invariably standing in front of the door.
We hibernate like bears through the winter. We venture out only to perform the most essential of tasks. Anything trivial such as socialising and exercise grinds to a halt until the summer months. Eating however doesn’t grind to a halt, in fact in most cases it increases significantly. The increased food consumption helps us store fat which gives us a little something extra to live on when it gets so dark and cold that you can’t even be bothered to go out and buy food. If you have eaten enough Gregg’s and bar snacks you can delay that overwhelming cold trip to the supermarket as long as your personal supply of blubber lasts.
As I sit here I notice a phenomenon even rarer than the sun itself. The people walking past me have their lips parted and the corners of their mouths are upturned on either side. They appear to be doing something that Londoners rarely do: they are smiling. Some of them are doing it as though they are little uncomfortable with the new placement of their lips. Some look like they may be doing it for the first times in their lives and some look they are practising, but aren’t quite competent enough to go pro yet with it.
A visitor to London in winter could be forgiven for thinking that years of evolution had rid the locals of their teeth. You can go months without seeing a set. The sun changes this. When I left home this morning my next-door neighbour was sitting on her garbage bin reading the Saturday papers in the sun. She looked happier than she had in months, so I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was awoken last night by a couple of young guys relieving themselves against that the same garbage bin.
The Japanese couple next to me are discussing how friendly they think the locals are. If only they knew what the locals were like the rest of the time. Maybe it didn’t matter, maybe it was just wonderful that this couple will go back to Japan and speak of the friendly English folk in sunny London town. I know how warming it is when people go out of their way to be friendly to you in a new country.
As I am questioning whether I may have been wrong about the humanity in London the couple stand up with their camera in hand. They approach a passing man to take a photograph of them with the gaggle of the ducks that they have been feeding a prawn sandwich from Prêt. The man they approach for help doesn’t so much as stop. He continues walking and shakes his head at them. Under is breath he mutters, ‘fucking tourists.’ Ah, thank god, I was worried that too much ‘Vicar of Dibley’ had thawed the hearts of Londoners. We need a little bit of hatred here; it makes the traffic flow faster.
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Identity Crisis
Recently whilst sitting in the doctor’s surgery I was asked to complete a customer service survey by the monosyllabic receptionist that the NHS had undoubtedly recruited as some kind of social experiment. The interruption broke my train of thought, I had been preoccupied weighing up the pros and cons of killing the four year old who had just managed to ram a toy truck into my ankle whilst his mother looked on. In the end I decided that it would be more painful for his mother if I kept her son alive.
I agreed to do the survey, knowing that my 4.30pm appointment stood the same chance of actually happening at 4.30pm as the receptionist stood of knowing how to use the pen she handed me. NHS appointments are run with the same efficiency as the London buses. Sadly unlike the buses doctors never come in threes.
Once I had managed to get the pen to work (I assumed yet another social experiment by the NHS) I began ticking boxes with the proficiency of an epileptic civil servant. Often on surveys it is easy to be tempted to bend the truth somewhat. Answering such questions as ‘how old are you?’ or ‘how much do you earn?’ no good can come of you telling the truth. A year off here and an extra zero added there and everyone comes off feeling good. As I was completing this particular survey wearing Ugg boots, odd coloured socks and old sweat pants and looking every one of my 32years, it seemed pointless to lie.
Then there came the question which I would never dream of answering with a lie: ‘how would you describe your ethnicity?’ As ‘bloody foreigner’ didn’t seem to be an option, I scanned the boxes for the best fit. Having been born in Australia of Anglo parents I could have taken pleasure toying with the NHS by ticking ‘Caribbean,’ but the NHS appeared to already have enough problems to cope with. There wasn’t a box for Australian; apparently the survey designer had never been to Earl’s Court. I didn’t want to tick the box ‘other white,’ for two reasons: firstly being the 'other white' made me feel a little too like the other white meat: pork and secondly I didn’t ever want to be grouped into the same box as the Americans. So I ticked the box ‘other’ and scrawled across the line left for further explanation the word ‘Londoner.’
I looked at the paper, realising the significance of what I had done. I had for the first time perhaps most accurately pinpointed the way I saw myself. I was a Londoner. Well, only as ‘floating misfit’ wasn’t an option.’ Maybe that’s what being a Londoner was? I wasn’t even sure if such an ethic group existed. If it did what distinguishes it from other groups?
A Londoner in 2009 is unlikely to have actually been born in London. The fact that so few of them are reliant on surviving a stay in a London hospital ensures the continuation of the race. Those that have been born here will speak with affection about the corner of town that they grew up in, they needn’t tell you where as their accent will tell you that. Perhaps it is more pride that affection. It is a tremendous accomplishment to survive your childhood in a city where more teenage girls carry knives than handbags and where the boys carry sexually transmitted diseases. I looked at the teenager opposite me in the surgery and tried to imagine what he had. He looked like a pin up for Chlamydia.
I wasn’t born here and it remained to be seen whether I survived my first hospital experience. So what made me feel like a Londoner? Sure, I live here, but I have lived in other cities without ever feeling the need to adopt its identity. Was it the fact that every time I saw a moving staircase my body would move to the right unconsciously? Was it that I thought it was unacceptable to have to walk more than thirty metres to get to a beer tap? Or seven metres to a rat? Or two metres to a Starbucks?
Perhaps more interesting was the fact that I would I never be caught dead in an English rugby jersey, yet I would proudly sport a London jersey if such a thing existed. Was I simply a geographical snob? Not much of a snob really to be proud of a town where Z list celebrities have taken on the role and status of Roman Gladiators? These people perform like caged animals while the crowds decide if they should survive or not after each battle. Those that do survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to. Those that don’t survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to.
It wasn’t just the people I had to question my affection for but actual the city itself. It had been designed centuries ago by groups of aging men who never expected in their lifetime to physically have to cross the city and so they didn’t allow for that practicality in their planning. Or the need to go to the bathroom during said journey.
So it wasn’t the people. It wasn’t the city. The fact that I was dressed like an Eskimo who had been let lose in a North Face factory sale meant it sure as hell wasn’t the weather. So what made me publicly out myself as a Londoner? I had better work it out as I had ticked the box ‘contact me to discuss further.’ And in a moment of madness I had given my real contact number. This was a rookie mistake, something perhaps that no true Londoner would have done. Where had this sudden outburst of honesty come from? I could feel the convict blood thinning in my veins. In an attempt to reinvigorate my Australianness I handed back the survey but I made sure I slipped their pen into my pocket.
I agreed to do the survey, knowing that my 4.30pm appointment stood the same chance of actually happening at 4.30pm as the receptionist stood of knowing how to use the pen she handed me. NHS appointments are run with the same efficiency as the London buses. Sadly unlike the buses doctors never come in threes.
Once I had managed to get the pen to work (I assumed yet another social experiment by the NHS) I began ticking boxes with the proficiency of an epileptic civil servant. Often on surveys it is easy to be tempted to bend the truth somewhat. Answering such questions as ‘how old are you?’ or ‘how much do you earn?’ no good can come of you telling the truth. A year off here and an extra zero added there and everyone comes off feeling good. As I was completing this particular survey wearing Ugg boots, odd coloured socks and old sweat pants and looking every one of my 32years, it seemed pointless to lie.
Then there came the question which I would never dream of answering with a lie: ‘how would you describe your ethnicity?’ As ‘bloody foreigner’ didn’t seem to be an option, I scanned the boxes for the best fit. Having been born in Australia of Anglo parents I could have taken pleasure toying with the NHS by ticking ‘Caribbean,’ but the NHS appeared to already have enough problems to cope with. There wasn’t a box for Australian; apparently the survey designer had never been to Earl’s Court. I didn’t want to tick the box ‘other white,’ for two reasons: firstly being the 'other white' made me feel a little too like the other white meat: pork and secondly I didn’t ever want to be grouped into the same box as the Americans. So I ticked the box ‘other’ and scrawled across the line left for further explanation the word ‘Londoner.’
I looked at the paper, realising the significance of what I had done. I had for the first time perhaps most accurately pinpointed the way I saw myself. I was a Londoner. Well, only as ‘floating misfit’ wasn’t an option.’ Maybe that’s what being a Londoner was? I wasn’t even sure if such an ethic group existed. If it did what distinguishes it from other groups?
A Londoner in 2009 is unlikely to have actually been born in London. The fact that so few of them are reliant on surviving a stay in a London hospital ensures the continuation of the race. Those that have been born here will speak with affection about the corner of town that they grew up in, they needn’t tell you where as their accent will tell you that. Perhaps it is more pride that affection. It is a tremendous accomplishment to survive your childhood in a city where more teenage girls carry knives than handbags and where the boys carry sexually transmitted diseases. I looked at the teenager opposite me in the surgery and tried to imagine what he had. He looked like a pin up for Chlamydia.
I wasn’t born here and it remained to be seen whether I survived my first hospital experience. So what made me feel like a Londoner? Sure, I live here, but I have lived in other cities without ever feeling the need to adopt its identity. Was it the fact that every time I saw a moving staircase my body would move to the right unconsciously? Was it that I thought it was unacceptable to have to walk more than thirty metres to get to a beer tap? Or seven metres to a rat? Or two metres to a Starbucks?
Perhaps more interesting was the fact that I would I never be caught dead in an English rugby jersey, yet I would proudly sport a London jersey if such a thing existed. Was I simply a geographical snob? Not much of a snob really to be proud of a town where Z list celebrities have taken on the role and status of Roman Gladiators? These people perform like caged animals while the crowds decide if they should survive or not after each battle. Those that do survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to. Those that don’t survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to.
It wasn’t just the people I had to question my affection for but actual the city itself. It had been designed centuries ago by groups of aging men who never expected in their lifetime to physically have to cross the city and so they didn’t allow for that practicality in their planning. Or the need to go to the bathroom during said journey.
So it wasn’t the people. It wasn’t the city. The fact that I was dressed like an Eskimo who had been let lose in a North Face factory sale meant it sure as hell wasn’t the weather. So what made me publicly out myself as a Londoner? I had better work it out as I had ticked the box ‘contact me to discuss further.’ And in a moment of madness I had given my real contact number. This was a rookie mistake, something perhaps that no true Londoner would have done. Where had this sudden outburst of honesty come from? I could feel the convict blood thinning in my veins. In an attempt to reinvigorate my Australianness I handed back the survey but I made sure I slipped their pen into my pocket.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
