Tate Expectations

We went to The Tate this afternoon - we're at the very coalface of London cultural life, you know - and, after a spot of noodling about looking at Gilbert & George stuff and making the correct fa(e)ces, we quit the prevaricating and made for what we really wanted. The slides.

Scrap went for the little one on Level 2, cued up, got excited, climbed in the bag, got lifted onto the top of the slide then bottled it when he was told he'd have to lie down. Cue hot tears.

The Wife made it up to level 4 and, while Scrap watched with growing alarm, chucked herself down. She squealed as she plummeted down the tube. Me and him clapped when she waved up at us.

I went to the level 5, took off my coat, put my phone in my pocket (which I discovered later was half full of old apple juice, thanks Scrap), climbed into the hessian sack and propelled myself down. It felt like I was dropping for ages, but it always smooth, it never felt like I was about to be flung to my certain death. Oh well.

Later, we went to Dragon Castle to celebrate Chinese New Year (trans: eat dim sum for tea). It was great, but then our mate Chris Martin says we're way too easily pleased, so maybe it was rubbish and we just didn't notice.

Anyway, I want to eat this soon.