So, I promised you all a write-up on the British Museum. As I started to write it, I realised how many almost identical posts already exist on the Internet, published by other bloggers, detailing exhibits at the British Museum. What I was writing, therefore, was a post which was just about as generic as they come. Returning to the drawing board, I decided to focus on one thing which happened that specific day, whether it be directly tied to the museum itself or not. And so, I produced the following account of a specific 10 mins of Saturday morning.
The British Museum, despite all of its wonderful exhibits and groundbreaking historical discoveries, does have one very, VERY major downfall: it’s flipping boiling! Mix that in with [possibly] the hottest British summer in, like, forever, and you will find yourself stood in the middle of an exhibition room, waving your hand around like a psycho-chicken and saying: ‘Gosh, it’s hot’, in a hopefully-hushed voice [coz British, and consequently socially awkward in public]. Due to the ridiculously high temperatures inside the British Museum, my mum and I decided to step outside for a few minutes, to rejoin the rest of the world in the act of breathing.
* Whoever came up with the idea of breathing was bloody clever, eh? *
We found a stone bench-thing to sit on, and so we did, and discussed the extortionate prices for bottled water being sold just behind us. Still, the length of the line was increasing by the minute, and I can only presume that it was made up wolely of tourists, who must now believe that Londoners are either very rich or good at shoplifting.
As we sat talking, a lady with a Welsh acent sat down, turned to us and said: ‘How are you enjoying the museum?’
This is London. if you’re not familiar with London, let me tell you this first off: we NEVER speak to one another. ever. sure, we hug strnagers on the tube to create space for an extra passenger in rush hour in central London, but talking to one another? You must be joking.
I answered. ‘It’s great – so interesting. How about you?’
Oh my God, I spoke to a stranger without looking idiotic – RESULT! What followed was a very pleasant conversation about London, and why she was here at the museum, and where she was from, and why I liked the museum. Going completely against my London culture was, surprising, really quite nice: it was just a lovely conversation.
It made me think, though. It must be lovely to live in a small community, where talking to a stranger doesn’t really happen, but for a totally different reason: there are no strangers. How safe would you feel living in a village where everyone knows everyone, and where everyone watches out for everyone else? And then, coming to London, I can only thank these people from the bottom of my heart that they bring these ideas [speaking, I mean] to London. It just felt so natural, and friendly, to communicate with a total stranger without the immediate what-if-they’re-a-murderer thought immediately jumping to the forefront of your mind. It was refreshing, even.
It’s difficult to put what I’m trying to say as a moral of the story into words here, but I think you catch my drift. Speak to Welsh people…!