I never thought it would work, but then who am I to talk? I went to the first night of a musical called Mamma Mia on 23 March 1999 and thought that it might just last till May Day. It is still going strong.
But this winter brings a rare chance to say "I told you so", not once but twice. (Though I can't actually remember if I did tell anyone about my fears for the Gilbert and the Hermitage; overawed by the grandeur of the occasions and the glitter of the visitor projections, I may just have shut up and drunk my free champagne.)
So on a recent sleety grey afternoon the Hermitage Rooms, once promising to bring the glory of Imperial Russia to a cramped corner of the Somerset House courtyard, really had closed. Downstairs nothing seemed sentient within the grey fishtank of the Gilbert Collection - but it has always looked like that.
When I first went I was excited by the glamour of the publicity, and the glitter of precious metal but as I trotted at the sprightly heels of Arthur Gilbert, I grew anxious.
The kit was fantastic - though his cherished micromosaics, tourist souvenirs on a Medici scale, were beyond polite murmurs of admiration - but the display somehow squashed the life out of it.
Great salvers and ewers, urns and epergnes, forks and spoons, and snuff boxes, all laid out splat before your eyes like a giant jeweller's window. At one point we bumped into an unfortunate curator who had dared to rearrange a case to look more interesting - and was promptly ordered to put it back the way he found it.
I can never do the silver galleries in the V&A all in one go: I start to go snow blind and can no longer focus on the squirming putti and the fish-tailed gentlemen brandishing salt dishes. But that doesn't matter as it's free, so you can do one case at a time and keep coming back.
Try as I might, I could never imagine tourists in London flocking to pay quite a lot of money to see the Gilbert when they could see as much fine silver as any sane mortal could want in South Ken and for nothing.
I did go back though, many times. The staff always seemed astonished to see anyone struggle through that heavy glass door.
But this winter brings a rare chance to say "I told you so", not once but twice. (Though I can't actually remember if I did tell anyone about my fears for the Gilbert and the Hermitage; overawed by the grandeur of the occasions and the glitter of the visitor projections, I may just have shut up and drunk my free champagne.)
So on a recent sleety grey afternoon the Hermitage Rooms, once promising to bring the glory of Imperial Russia to a cramped corner of the Somerset House courtyard, really had closed. Downstairs nothing seemed sentient within the grey fishtank of the Gilbert Collection - but it has always looked like that.
When I first went I was excited by the glamour of the publicity, and the glitter of precious metal but as I trotted at the sprightly heels of Arthur Gilbert, I grew anxious.
The kit was fantastic - though his cherished micromosaics, tourist souvenirs on a Medici scale, were beyond polite murmurs of admiration - but the display somehow squashed the life out of it.
Great salvers and ewers, urns and epergnes, forks and spoons, and snuff boxes, all laid out splat before your eyes like a giant jeweller's window. At one point we bumped into an unfortunate curator who had dared to rearrange a case to look more interesting - and was promptly ordered to put it back the way he found it.
I can never do the silver galleries in the V&A all in one go: I start to go snow blind and can no longer focus on the squirming putti and the fish-tailed gentlemen brandishing salt dishes. But that doesn't matter as it's free, so you can do one case at a time and keep coming back.
Try as I might, I could never imagine tourists in London flocking to pay quite a lot of money to see the Gilbert when they could see as much fine silver as any sane mortal could want in South Ken and for nothing.
I did go back though, many times. The staff always seemed astonished to see anyone struggle through that heavy glass door.
