24 jan 09The Guardian newspaper recently found a new home in King’s Cross. They are sharing a building which also accommodates the new King’s Place Arts Centre, including a a Gallery which we had intended to investigate.
But first we were attracted to an exhibition of journalistic photographs in the Guardian Building. We started in the Lobby and examined a number of small but interesting photo journalistic archive gems, including chilling contemporary snaps of Myra Hindley and Liam Brady. This show we shared with a handful of like-minded enthusiasts including a young middle class family whose parents were chastised by an officious bossy Guardian of the Guardian.
I did not actually see the incident for which they were chastised, but I understood and believe that their kids were having too much fun playing on the escalator that led to the first floor, where I assumed the exhibition would continue.
When we came to continue our tour on the first floor, I faced an emphatic barrier between me and the escalator.
“This is as far as YOU can go. The remainder of the building is PRIVATE.”
I looked up upon who was addressing me with such severity, and it was obviously the same man who had chastised the parent of the kids who had dared to play on the “escalator.” There were only a half dozen people in the room included an elderly couple who instantly caught my eye and were up for a geriatric rumble.
The man was dressed in bible black uniform. I pointed at Mrs Monk who was already riding the escalator beyond the point of no return,
I told him, “OK with me, but you had better tell her, because she is an Impostor.”
Man in black watched as Mrs Monk rode the escalator into the kingdom of the Guardian of civil liberties. I looked at the elderly couple, who attempted to suppress giggles.
We all expected Mrs Monk to return by way of the Down escalator but the man in black had underestimated the tenacity of Mrs Monk. We all observed Mrs Monk defy expectations and go out of view into Private territory.
Man in Black ascended escalator two steps at a time, and beyond the summit and out of view.
In due course a muted familiar yelp was heard as Mrs Monk had been apprehended, and indeed reprimanded.
I turned to the elderly co-conspirators and speculated, “ I think my wife has been arrested.”
In due course Mrs. Monk returned alongside the man in black.
We heard her attempt to reason with the officious Darth Vador with overstated obsequious servility, in deference to his position of power and influence upon a slum dog pensioner, who had dared to enter the Guardian Temple of liberty.
“If I write in to the Guardian, would you let me take a tour of the building, and have a look around,” she said.
“No”, he said, “you cannot look around.”
“Why not?”, She said. “Why can I NOT write in?” She said.
Mrs Monk had a point because her pen is mightier than her charm and mightier than this blacked-up jacked-up black tie in a black suit, with pips. (Actually, he may have had no pips.)
He said, “You can write in, but you cannot have a look around because this is PRIVATE.”
At that point Mrs Monk gave up, as if she really cared.
During Mrs Monk’s absence, the elderly couple that I befriended smiled and giggled throughout.
As we left the building I thanked the man in black, for his “welcome” to the Guardian Newspaper.
This is Mrs Monk’s letter to the guardian which the man in black said that she could not write.
So Dear Guardian, why can’t Mrs Monk have a look around? What gives?