I resolve not to stump around exhibitions snorting: "What bloody idiot let the designers get away with grey on grey labels, in a font size that wouldn't disgrace the seamstress mice in the Tailor of Gloucester?"
However, I will continue, without snorting, to take out my tiny keyring torch and shine it on the labels for anyone visibly struggling and failing to make anything of them. (Designers of Byzantium at the Royal Academey, did you really think it would somehow detract from the heaped golden and silver treasure of Constantinople if people could actually read the labels?)
I resolve not to snarl "oh shut up and stop talking to me in that high-pitched whinge as if I were a dog or a toddler" the next time I see a panel reading: "So what do YOU think our mystery object is!?" over a cack-handed cartoon of a stick man scratching his head. (National Trust, take note.)
I resolve to accept that "ritual" is a perfectly good synonym for "haven't a clue".
I resolve not to clatter crockery and cutlery as loudly as possible, while making disapproving sniffing noises, on arriving in a museum cafe at some outrageous hour like 2pm to find every single flat surface covered by uncleared trays. (British Museum Great
Court cafe, I'm sure there was a perfectly good excuse. Every time.)
I resolve not to ask "so where is the transgender pocket money section please?" when next confronted with a museum shop piled high with knights' tabards and wooden swords for boys, and pink plastic tiaras for girlies. (Tower of London, what are you like?)
I resolve not to mutter "Where's Cromwell when you need him?" on paying £8.50 to visit the Queen's Gallery or £16.50 to enter the State Rooms at Buckingham Palace. This is possibly because the Royal Collection has stopped inviting me to press events, on the grounds of my views on their pricing policy. In both cases I reserve the right to snap "and you still can't get a cup of bleedin' tea".
I admit that these are almost certainly my first lies in print of 2009. I will inevitably continue to do all these things. I'm sorry. No, sorry, that's a lie too.
However, I will continue, without snorting, to take out my tiny keyring torch and shine it on the labels for anyone visibly struggling and failing to make anything of them. (Designers of Byzantium at the Royal Academey, did you really think it would somehow detract from the heaped golden and silver treasure of Constantinople if people could actually read the labels?)
I resolve not to snarl "oh shut up and stop talking to me in that high-pitched whinge as if I were a dog or a toddler" the next time I see a panel reading: "So what do YOU think our mystery object is!?" over a cack-handed cartoon of a stick man scratching his head. (National Trust, take note.)
I resolve to accept that "ritual" is a perfectly good synonym for "haven't a clue".
I resolve not to clatter crockery and cutlery as loudly as possible, while making disapproving sniffing noises, on arriving in a museum cafe at some outrageous hour like 2pm to find every single flat surface covered by uncleared trays. (British Museum Great
Court cafe, I'm sure there was a perfectly good excuse. Every time.)
I resolve not to ask "so where is the transgender pocket money section please?" when next confronted with a museum shop piled high with knights' tabards and wooden swords for boys, and pink plastic tiaras for girlies. (Tower of London, what are you like?)
I resolve not to mutter "Where's Cromwell when you need him?" on paying £8.50 to visit the Queen's Gallery or £16.50 to enter the State Rooms at Buckingham Palace. This is possibly because the Royal Collection has stopped inviting me to press events, on the grounds of my views on their pricing policy. In both cases I reserve the right to snap "and you still can't get a cup of bleedin' tea".
I admit that these are almost certainly my first lies in print of 2009. I will inevitably continue to do all these things. I'm sorry. No, sorry, that's a lie too.
