There's something in the air and, though I keep weeping and sneezing, I don't think it's London plane tree pollen. It's like those conversations at parties that you never quite get the hang of because you missed the beginning.
The conversation appears to be about hard times, added value, new realism and tough decisions. Somebody murmurs about gaining control over ones own destiny. Somebody else asks who's rich now, not the government but all those tourists with real money like euros and dollars jangling in their pockets.
I must have missed that opening bit where somebody said: "Tell you what's going to happen, no matter who wins the next election..." But I think what we're talking about is charging for entry into museums and galleries.
There's a black-taxi money box on my bookshelf, where I chuck pound coins left in my pockets at the end of the day. At the end of many a month, I raid it for school dinner money and bus fares - and I often think about free admission and museums.
Every penny I've ever earned would hardly swell the pension pot of one disgraced city banker but by any sane standards of the real world I'm rich. I have a job, a tatty old car, a roof over my head, a tiny garden that yields herbs and tomatoes, an affordable mortgage and only one child to rear. Even in this country, never mind the big world, I am one of a ludicrously privileged elite.
But I remember all the times, not so long ago, when Samuel wanted to go and see the dinosaurs, again, at the Natural History Museum, and though he got in free, I had to raid that money box for £7.50 for me.
I also think of the acquaintance who I believed had no interest at all in museums, but who said wistfully one day that she hadn't been in one since she was a child, but she supposed it was dreadfully expensive now. She was astounded when I told her they were free.
I can't bear to tell her that, like the dinosaurs, the days of free entry may be coming to an end.
The conversation appears to be about hard times, added value, new realism and tough decisions. Somebody murmurs about gaining control over ones own destiny. Somebody else asks who's rich now, not the government but all those tourists with real money like euros and dollars jangling in their pockets.
I must have missed that opening bit where somebody said: "Tell you what's going to happen, no matter who wins the next election..." But I think what we're talking about is charging for entry into museums and galleries.
There's a black-taxi money box on my bookshelf, where I chuck pound coins left in my pockets at the end of the day. At the end of many a month, I raid it for school dinner money and bus fares - and I often think about free admission and museums.
Every penny I've ever earned would hardly swell the pension pot of one disgraced city banker but by any sane standards of the real world I'm rich. I have a job, a tatty old car, a roof over my head, a tiny garden that yields herbs and tomatoes, an affordable mortgage and only one child to rear. Even in this country, never mind the big world, I am one of a ludicrously privileged elite.
But I remember all the times, not so long ago, when Samuel wanted to go and see the dinosaurs, again, at the Natural History Museum, and though he got in free, I had to raid that money box for £7.50 for me.
I also think of the acquaintance who I believed had no interest at all in museums, but who said wistfully one day that she hadn't been in one since she was a child, but she supposed it was dreadfully expensive now. She was astounded when I told her they were free.
I can't bear to tell her that, like the dinosaurs, the days of free entry may be coming to an end.
