The Peabody Papers: AJ and Mrs. Peabody Visit London, 2018
Jan 23rd, 2019, 01:51 PM
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We were admiring a particularly interesting piece of porcelain encased in a protective transparent cube. Next to us, a woman with a phone camera was attempting to take the perfect picture. Suddenly she moved sideways into Mrs. P, knocking her off her feet. Only a quick grab onto me prevented Mrs. P from a fall to the hard marble floor. Not a word of apology in any language from the perpetrator, who continued in her effort to get just the perfect electronic record of what she would not see.
Mrs. P, visibly upset, moved a dozen steps away and was clearly preparing to make an incident. With lightning speed, I moved in, blocking the view of the perpetrator. She moved left. I moved left. She moved right. I moved right. She changed her attention to the label for the pot. I blocked. For several minutes we danced in seemingly coordinated silence. I blocked every attempt at a picture. There was never an “I’m sorry” or an “Excuse me” or any sign of courtesy or contrition from the attacker. Eventually she walked away. I mentally likened myself to the soup Nazi: “No photo for you!”
My wife returned. We examined the porcelain. I did not take a picture.
We were admiring a particularly interesting piece of porcelain encased in a protective transparent cube. Next to us, a woman with a phone camera was attempting to take the perfect picture. Suddenly she moved sideways into Mrs. P, knocking her off her feet. Only a quick grab onto me prevented Mrs. P from a fall to the hard marble floor. Not a word of apology in any language from the perpetrator, who continued in her effort to get just the perfect electronic record of what she would not see.
Mrs. P, visibly upset, moved a dozen steps away and was clearly preparing to make an incident. With lightning speed, I moved in, blocking the view of the perpetrator. She moved left. I moved left. She moved right. I moved right. She changed her attention to the label for the pot. I blocked. For several minutes we danced in seemingly coordinated silence. I blocked every attempt at a picture. There was never an “I’m sorry” or an “Excuse me” or any sign of courtesy or contrition from the attacker. Eventually she walked away. I mentally likened myself to the soup Nazi: “No photo for you!”
My wife returned. We examined the porcelain. I did not take a picture.
