Diary of an urban Grandad
WHEN I was a teenager, my mates and I liked to spend time mooching around the city centre.
As with most teenagers, we were always on the lookout for things to do that allowed us to have a laugh, keep warm and not spend too much of our hard earned money. For some strange reason, we hit upon the idea of spending our Saturday afternoons in the city museum. It ticked so many boxes. There were loads of weird things to stare at, it was always warm and when you fancied a treat, you could always head to the cafe for a pot of tea and quietly help yourself to as many sachets of sugar as your sweet tooth desired. Teenage kicks didn’t get much better than that in the1970s, at least, not until punk came along and made everything more interesting.
Fast forward a few decades and it turns out my teenage granddaughter and her friends have made the same discovery about the marvellous museums we have right here in Bristol. Recently I found out that one of the things her and her mates like to do, is hang out in museums, exactly the way my friends and I used to do all those years ago. Except without the smartphones. Obviously.
All of which is very odd because as far as I can remember, I have never mentioned my own misspent teenage museum years to any of the family. In fact, when my own children were growing up, I tended to treat my interest in history as a bit of a guilty secret. Something about which I would never speak. Yet here we are, many years later, and apparently the younger members of the family can now think of no better way to pass the time than by hanging out, staring at ancient remains. All very mysterious indeed.
However, I do have a theory. If you will bear with me, I shall explain.
But first a bit of background. One of the joys of visiting a museum is the chance to improve your understanding of the world about us. Living where we do, we have lots of lovely museums to choose from right on our very doorstep. Whether you prefer supersonic aeroplanes, old green buses or natural history specimens, there is an exhibition nearby just waiting to fulfil your every dream. I should know, in my role as urban grandad I seem to spend half my time these days taking assorted children and grandchildren to visit one or other of these fine institutions.
Why only last week, at half term, I was down in the Portsmouth Historic Dockyard having a whale of a time with several generations of my family. Glorious, it was too. Completely and utterly. We scurried over old ships and hunkered down in tight corners, getting all ship shape and Bristolian fashion, thoroughly immersed in reliving those olden days. However, that is a story for another week and another column. In this case, the
Bristol Post weekend magazine, where hopefully the story of my travels will appear one day soon. But I digress.
Point is, there are many mysteries to the human mind and body. Questions that need to be answered. In this case, my question is simple, why do so many of my grandkids share the bizarre enthusiasm for history that I developed in my youth? It’s a puzzle, it really is. However, turns out that if you visit enough museums, you will find the answer to any question. Eventually.
One of the collections I saw recently had a whole room dedicated to the wonders of genetics. Telling the story of their all powerful influence on our lives. Obviously, we all know what genes do. Pass things down from generation to generation. Simple. Usually it’s the obvious ones that get all the attention. That would be the ones affecting eye colour, hair colour, height and hair loss.
However, I think there is one particular gene that has been left off that list for far too long.
I am talking here about the ‘museum gene.’ The one that half my family seem to have. Makes the poor innocent carrier go all weak at the knees at the thought of history and adjoining coffee shops. To be honest, I’m not sure whether it is a curse, or a cure for 21st-century blues.
But either way, it makes me happy to know that in this era of smartphones, Google and online stupidity, there is still room for museums in childhood. If my grandkids all grow up with as many fond and archive based memories as I have, then I think all will be well with their world.
Just hope they bring home some of those lovely sugar sachets!
As far as I can remember, I have never mentioned my own misspent teenage museum years to any of the family