Nothing is certain except death, taxes, and the return of the man in the unpleasant hat. I don't know what he does about his taxes, but he does death better than almost any museum I know.
Human beings seem hard wired to be very interested in death and bodies, an interest that increasingly makes museums uneasy. The more they try to be sensitive and discreet about the whole messy business, the more they risk provoking hilarity or prurience.
What could be more titillating than mummies swaddled up in their specially woven clean linen shrouds (though they also irresistibly reminded me of Dobby the House Elf in his tea towel) or with their lids half ajar, or with coy little notices inviting me to push a button to switch on the light.
The Museum of London, with the best possible intentions, invited its visitors to step into a booth in the corner of its Jack the Ripper show to view what it tastefully billed as some of the most shocking photographs of the 19th century: any fairground sideshow proprietor knows the technique.
I only know one small and lovable British museum devoted to death: it's tiny, and hardly ever open, created to celebrate the centenary of a west London institution, the undertaker Frederick W Paine.
The displays are charming, including photographs of the parade of horse drawn carriages, trains, limousines and even planes in which the ever-progressive Mr Paine sent his customers to meet their maker.
The listed interior comfortingly resembles the better class of Edwardian pub, and the whole thing is a celebration of a wonderfully Betjemanesque way of death.
Or there's the man in the hat, Gunther von Hagens, who took over from Tutankhamun in the Dome just in time for Hallowe'en. Bodies are his thing, and he makes no bones about it: "REAL human and animal bodies that have been coated in plastic, rather than wrapped up in muslin."
Death has made him rich: some 24 million people have seen his shiny pink flayed subjects. I can't say I like it much myself - but at least it's honest.
Human beings seem hard wired to be very interested in death and bodies, an interest that increasingly makes museums uneasy. The more they try to be sensitive and discreet about the whole messy business, the more they risk provoking hilarity or prurience.
What could be more titillating than mummies swaddled up in their specially woven clean linen shrouds (though they also irresistibly reminded me of Dobby the House Elf in his tea towel) or with their lids half ajar, or with coy little notices inviting me to push a button to switch on the light.
The Museum of London, with the best possible intentions, invited its visitors to step into a booth in the corner of its Jack the Ripper show to view what it tastefully billed as some of the most shocking photographs of the 19th century: any fairground sideshow proprietor knows the technique.
I only know one small and lovable British museum devoted to death: it's tiny, and hardly ever open, created to celebrate the centenary of a west London institution, the undertaker Frederick W Paine.
The displays are charming, including photographs of the parade of horse drawn carriages, trains, limousines and even planes in which the ever-progressive Mr Paine sent his customers to meet their maker.
The listed interior comfortingly resembles the better class of Edwardian pub, and the whole thing is a celebration of a wonderfully Betjemanesque way of death.
Or there's the man in the hat, Gunther von Hagens, who took over from Tutankhamun in the Dome just in time for Hallowe'en. Bodies are his thing, and he makes no bones about it: "REAL human and animal bodies that have been coated in plastic, rather than wrapped up in muslin."
Death has made him rich: some 24 million people have seen his shiny pink flayed subjects. I can't say I like it much myself - but at least it's honest.
