Yesterday, we arrived 15.45 at the Melbourne Museum for Titanic: The Artefact Exhibition, more or less reconciled to the fact that we might not get in (it’s a timed-ticket show), but despite the crowds, we got places for the 16.30 slot.So we sauntered amongst the museum’s dinosaurs for half an hour before picking up our boarding passes – I was Mrs Thomas Potter, Jr. (Lily Alexenia Wilson) from Pennsylvania, a first class passenger, aged 56, accompanied by my daughter Olive and Olive’s school friend Margaret Hays. At the end of the exhibition, everyone was encouraged to ascertain whether they had survived or not. The exhibition quite effectively recreated another age and a more genteel way of life (for the rich, at least) then capped it with the terrible tragedy and somber displays about the recovery of the sunken liner, all of which made turning the final corner and stepping into the bright glare and acquisitive bustle of the gift shop a dreadful experience. Perhaps it’s just me, but I’d rather not see novelty ice cube shapes and Titanic together on a product label.
After, as we made our way towards the Arts Centre, we had no sooner decided that we should grab something to eat than a brochure wielding girl skipped up to us and ushered us down a narrow arcade to a small restaurant full of Asian students, cheap tables, plastic cups, great service and Szechwan food so delicious that I’m still regretting that I couldn’t eat all of mine. I would have shamelessly asked for a doggy bag if I’d had something besides a handbag to stow it in.
Then it was time for the ballet. Earlier in the week, I was lucky enough to secure tickets in the stalls for Coppélia. As is usual with the fairytale classics, there were lots of rapt little girls in the audience, most wearing sparkly headbands and flouncy dresses, each one a potential tiara wearing ballerina of the future.
The only blot on the day was the World Cup racket from roving bands of vuvuzela "players" that we ran into afterwards as we headed back to the car. For the record, I heartily endorse any efforts to rid the world of vuvuzelas. If there’s a petition somewhere that I can sign, just let me know.
Then it was time for the ballet. Earlier in the week, I was lucky enough to secure tickets in the stalls for Coppélia. As is usual with the fairytale classics, there were lots of rapt little girls in the audience, most wearing sparkly headbands and flouncy dresses, each one a potential tiara wearing ballerina of the future.The only blot on the day was the World Cup racket from roving bands of vuvuzela "players" that we ran into afterwards as we headed back to the car. For the record, I heartily endorse any efforts to rid the world of vuvuzelas. If there’s a petition somewhere that I can sign, just let me know.
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