Chris in the UK

It was a day that started with the Rosetta Stone - that stylish Egyptian slab combining Hieroglyphs, Demotic, and Greek - and finished with Egyptian Geese. But it was a long journey between the two.

I was determined not to be insufferable at the British Museum, that glossy showcase of the plunders of colonialism. So much loot. (As Shashi Tharoor points out, even the word "loot" is itself looted from Hindustani) But I've seen a hundred people log their progressive credentials on Twitter by having the published insight that "omg the British stole things!" And I was determined not to ruin the whole thing for Stuart and myself.

Speaking of Twitter, on my first day out and about in London a little girl pointed at a statue of Captain Cook and said "He discovered Australia!" and I thought to say her: "Little girl, tell me your Twitter handle right now so I can block you because frankly you sicken me, and it's people like you who are tearing this planet apart." But I refrained, which only underscores my moral excellence, to have thought it and said nothing. (Until now, whence I'm publishing it, to impress you.)

Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, the British Museum. Well, the first thing you should know is that we went in the back door, thinking it was the front. You are allowed to make a gay joke here if you feel the need. And once you've got it out of your system, I invite you to marvel at the good sense we showed in using a less popular entrance to a popular place. It meant we had the first few halls to ourselves.

The Ancient Chinese artifacts floored me. Because of the Nationalistic bent of my twentieth century curriculum, I grew up thinking of "Ancient" as meaning "Ancient Rome" - not Ancient Australia, and certainly not Ancient China. Every little thing in the Chinese history hall was exciting - and much much older than I had anticipated.

From there to Ancient Iran, Ancient Rome, and Ancient Britain. We saw the eerie visage of the Sutton Hoo helmet staring at us from head height, a Byzantine icon of John the Baptist looking like he could do with a cut and beard trim, and statues I had seen only in books - Mercury, Hypnos, Apollo. One hour went very quickly, and took my energy with it.

But we still hadn't seen the celebrity artifacts: the Rosetta Stone, and the Parthenon marbles. These were located at the front of the building, our last stop before exiting. They were both very crowded exhibitions, full of children wandering aimlessly wondering when the fun was going to start. I saw one little boy lying on the polished floor in the middle of the milling crowd, arms outstretched like a penitent, mouth pressed against the tiles, moaning continuously in dramatic boredom: uggghhhhhh!

(This was as good as the kid yesterday at Buckingham Palace who said of the Victoria Monument: "Oy Dad, look, but like you can see his WHOLE butt cheek though! His WHOLE. BUTT CHEEK!")

I was excited about the prospect of the British Museum gift shop. I needn't have been. It was full of ticky tacky that really centered on a limited number of celebrity artifacts, especially Hokusai's Great Wave and the Rosetta Stone, both available as keyrings, tea towels, jigsaws, wallets, paperweights, magnets, and so on and so forth. I don't know what kind of esoterica I had in mind when I imagined the British Museum gift shop, but it certainly wasn't this kind of mass produced showbaggery.

This was a portent of the day's shopping altogether really. Stuart wanted to head home, and I wanted to shop, so I determined that I would simply go for a walk through Covent Garden and maybe get some great new colourful clothes. What ensued was a 2 hour walk around Covent Garden, Leicester Square, Trafalgar Square, Soho, and Oxford Street, wandering into shops and wandering out of them again.

What I can say about the menswear on sale in London is this: it's the same as literally everywhere else, and even in a more limited colour pallet. Do the British really get off on that "Children of Men" colour pallet of greys and blacks? Or is that merely what the tourists line up for? I went into a lot of shops and saw a lot of drab dreck. The swarming inescapable crowds had bags full of stuff, but I'm not sure what. Maybe shoes from Skechers. Or maybe just a refill of their prescriptions and a packet of Sea Salt and Chardonnay Vinegar Crisps from Tesco.

I decided I wouldn't buy a damn thing.

I went to Hyde Park in a fit of pique. But this was a good move! Hyde Park was full of families and friends looking for a sweet Sunday afternoon, and so the place was sunlit, warm, convivial, and quiet. Stuart came and joined me and we grabbed a paddleboat to help us decompress and reconnect after an afternoon apart.

I have always eschewed paddleboats as being too achingly touristy to countenance. I'm not sure what made me want to do it today, but I felt that there was simply nothing better than messing about in boats.

The sun set, and we caught the Victoria Line home on its way to Brixton, and then presumably hell. I felt that after so much walking on a day where I found even standing difficult was slightly masochistic, but I was much more able to enjoy London today than on my jetlagged days.

Having morning coffee at Emmeline Pankhurst's house (Burr & Co coffee) and lunch at a Pub where the Bloomsbury set convened (The Plough) gave today some historic resonances. And both were absolutely serendipitous. Unlike my clothes shopping, which was the opposite of serendipity. I'm trying to think of the word for that. "Fucking shithouse?" I'm tempted to try again tomorrow. Then again, it will be our last day in London.

Maybe I'll just head back to the British Museum and lie face down on the tiles making some guttural noises before buying a Rosetta Stone hand sanitiser. As long as I don't have to walk there.

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