I really went because I wanted to see the new extension that had been built for the Ashmolean Museum (cost £60 million). As Jack and I arrived, the signs were not good for any kind of extensive visit as Jack said "It's not all art stuff is it? I hate art stuff. Oh, look at the signs outside; it's all art stuff isn't it?" Well, he had a point, but in fact it's mainly antiquities.
The extension itself is beautiful: very clean and spacious. But we only spent about 10 minutes there in total, including five minutes in the gift shop, before heading off to Browns for lunch.
When we used to live in Oxford, Browns' waitress employment policy priorities were always: great face and legs? check. can carry a plate? check. They were almost always spectacularly good looking and wore mini skirts; clearly hazardous when dealing with beered up male diners, but you couldn't help feeling the waitresses made considerably more out of tips than they did through official channels. Since it's changed hands (to some restaurant chain) this shameful and wildly popular policy has changed to become more, ah, inclusive, so the meal is less of an event than it used to be.
So after spending an hour or so looking like a divorced father taking his son out for a meal on his access day ('Course you have a coke, son; I don't get to see you that often'), we went off to the History of Science Museum. I should point out also that the weather was filthy - raining with gale force winds - so looking for indoor shelter was always a priority. The Steampunk exhibition at the Museum was still on, and thankfully less crowded than last time, so we managed to get a good look at the exhibits this time.
They're universally excellent, obviously, but I was once again struck by the thought, 'Why on earth do they bother?' Some of the things must have taken months of careful work, but it's such a niche market - it's even a sub-genre of SciFi, itself probably the ultimate niche market - that whatever they produce is going to appeal to a tiny minority of people. Ridiculous thought, of course, only a twat like me would worry about how many people something would appeal to as part of the creative process. Anyway, at the end of all the brass and leather computer keyboards, steam driven mechanical arms, and ocular assistance devices was a room with proper Victorian scientific instruments, and it took a few moments to realise one had passed from fantasy to reality. It was a clever touch by the curators.
After the museum, we then spent a fairly desultory hour wandering through the wind-swept streets and the covered market (Jack fascinated, as most are seeing it for the first time, by the headless deer and pheasant carcasses hanging outside the butchers' shops - how on earth does Oxford support so many specialist butchers? I think he was most horrified by the fact that as part of the gutting process they remove the anus - "Oh my God, they've cut out their bum-holes!!"). I even went to a CD and Record Fair in the Town Hall to get out of the rain. Rather depressing affair, several beardy types (not women, though could have been) talking about early George Benson and the collectibility of different pressings of a particular album. The traders staring blankly ahead, as yet another punter riffles idly through their collection, their livelihood, before moving on without buying something. I don't remember the last time I went to one of these things, so I don't know how well attended they usually are, but this one was sparse, with sellers outnumbering buyers. Can't help feeling BitTorrent and iTunes are going to kill the CD Fair much like they're killing the record shops; HMV seems to devote only a third of its floorspace to CDs now, the rest being taken up with DVDs, gaming, and t-shirts.
Well, Elizabeth finally finished her lunch, and we met and said goodbye to Ludo, then home for an evening flaked out on the sofa, staring glassy-eyed at Harry Hill and HIGNFY, listening to Jack shouting at the TV next door while playing Call of Duty. Life in the fast lane.
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