The little men stared back stonily, perhaps not realising that by then my companion had driven me so wild with irritation that I was itching for somebody to punch.
What my companion really rated was plinths. High plinths, low plinths, deep plinths. The exhibition at the British Museum gives plinths a starring role at last, though their gleaming perfection was occasionally broken by scruffy old bits and bobs of stone, ceramic and timber plonked on top of them.
Each time we paused, my companion - who seemed to have written the labels as well - told me whether the plinth was tall, or large, or low. I waited for him to tell me whether the plinth represented the original height of the bits and bobs but he never did.
I did feel a mutinous spasm when he went on about the villainous torturing Spanish. I certainly wouldn't have liked Cortes and his merry band of Christian treasure hunters to break all my bones and impale me on a pike, but wouldn't much have liked Moctezuma to lead me to a mountain top, slit open my chest with an obsidian knife and rip out my steaming heart either.
When we reached the little stone men and he said they were there to "people" the space, I really lost my temper. He also told me, obviously, that they stood on a tall plinth.
I very rarely take the audioguides to exhibitions, dreading that they will turn out to be the museum equivalent of being trapped in the lift with the office bore.
It will probably take me a while to recover from Moctezuma and borrow one again. Meanwhile, I have a modest proposal for peopling the space. Why not pick a visitor at random each day - I say at random, but the government would probably want them weighted by age, sex and ethnic origin - and eviscerate them under the portico, perhaps just as the sun hits Hawksmoor's spire on St George's, allowing a nice crimson ribbon of blood to decorate the front steps?
It really could set a new gold standard for interactivity.
What my companion really rated was plinths. High plinths, low plinths, deep plinths. The exhibition at the British Museum gives plinths a starring role at last, though their gleaming perfection was occasionally broken by scruffy old bits and bobs of stone, ceramic and timber plonked on top of them.
Each time we paused, my companion - who seemed to have written the labels as well - told me whether the plinth was tall, or large, or low. I waited for him to tell me whether the plinth represented the original height of the bits and bobs but he never did.
I did feel a mutinous spasm when he went on about the villainous torturing Spanish. I certainly wouldn't have liked Cortes and his merry band of Christian treasure hunters to break all my bones and impale me on a pike, but wouldn't much have liked Moctezuma to lead me to a mountain top, slit open my chest with an obsidian knife and rip out my steaming heart either.
When we reached the little stone men and he said they were there to "people" the space, I really lost my temper. He also told me, obviously, that they stood on a tall plinth.
I very rarely take the audioguides to exhibitions, dreading that they will turn out to be the museum equivalent of being trapped in the lift with the office bore.
It will probably take me a while to recover from Moctezuma and borrow one again. Meanwhile, I have a modest proposal for peopling the space. Why not pick a visitor at random each day - I say at random, but the government would probably want them weighted by age, sex and ethnic origin - and eviscerate them under the portico, perhaps just as the sun hits Hawksmoor's spire on St George's, allowing a nice crimson ribbon of blood to decorate the front steps?
It really could set a new gold standard for interactivity.
