Make Way for the Special Ones

Just as I was leaving the Tate Modern an ear-splitting yell erupted from a child, "Mummy! Look at me! I'm a beautiful butterfly!" This was followed by a bellowing male voice, "Mirabelle, show Piers how you pirouette!" A family group was charging down the entry ramp towards me.

Everything about them screamed Super Rich: the immaculate tailoring of the father's jacket; the high thread count of the billowing white cloak that fell from the mother's expensively perfumed shoulders; the way that all four of them expected us merely mortal hoi polloi to divide as they passed through us on their cloud of entitlement.

The 'beautiful butterfly' turned out to be a squat, be-freckled, snub-nosed six-year-old girl. She was wearing a pink tutu and ballet slippers; in one hand she was waving a decent-sized branch, torn from one of the birch trees outside.

Following her father's suggestion the plain child began her routine for her plain brother, Piers. She span round in circles, shrieking like a fire engine. At this, father, mother and brother laughed at the jolly hi-jinks of their precious poppet, oblivious to the discomfort of us stinking peasants, some of whom were now clasping trembling hands over their ears.

When they attempted to walk into one of the gallery rooms a guard halted them and said, "I'm sorry, but you can't bring that tree into the Tate."

The mother was furious at this challenge and she turned to her husband and spat, "Oh! This is simply TOO much!"














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