Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle by Sophie Kinsella Page B

afraid not,” she says, and points to a sign behind me. I turn to read it, and nearly keel over in astonishment.
Admission £5.00
.
    I feel quite faint with shock. What’s happened to the world? They’re
charging
for admission to a museum. This is outrageous. Everyone knows museums are supposed to be free. If you start charging for museums, no one will ever go! Our cultural heritage will be lost to a whole generation, excluded by a punitive financial barrier. The nation will be dumbed down still further, andcivilized society will face the very brink of collapse. Is that what you want, Tony Blair?
    Plus, I don’t have £5. I deliberately came out with no cash except £2.50 for my curry ingredients. Oh God, this is annoying. I mean, here I am, all ready for some culture. I
want
to go in and look at … well, whatever’s in there—and I can’t!
    Now all the Japanese tourists are staring at me, as if I’m some sort of criminal. Go away! I think crossly. Go and look at some art.
    “We take credit cards,” says the woman. “VISA, Switch, American Express.”
    “Oh,” I say. “Well … OK.”
    “The season ticket is £15,” she says, as I reach for my purse, “but it gives you unlimited access for a year.”
    Unlimited access for a year! Now wait just a minute. David E. Barton says what you’re supposed to do, when you make any purchase, is estimate the “cost per use,” which you get by dividing the price by the number of times you use it. Let’s suppose that from now on I come to the V&A once a month. (I should think that’s quite realistic.) If I buy a season ticket, that’s only … £1.25 a visit.
    Well, that’s a bargain, isn’t it? It’s actually a very good investment, when you come to think of it.
    “OK, I’ll have the season ticket,” I say, and hand over my VISA card. Hah! Culture here I come.
    I start off really well. I look at my little map, and peer at each exhibit, and carefully read all the little cards.
    Chalice made from silver, Dutch, 16th century
Plaque depicting Holy Trinity, Italian mid–15th century Blue and white earthenware bowl, early 17th century
    That bowl’s really nice, I find myself thinking in sudden interest, and wonder how much it is. It looks quite expensive … I’mjust peering to see if there’s a price tag when I remember where I am. Of course. There aren’t any prices here.
    Which is a bit of a mistake, I think. Because it kind of takes the fun out of it, doesn’t it? You wander round, just looking at things, and it all gets a bit boring after a while. Whereas if they put price tags on, you’d be far more interested. In fact, I think all museums should put prices on their exhibits. You’d look at a silver chalice or a marble statue or the
Mona Lisa
or whatever, and admire it for its beauty and historical importance and everything—and then you’d reach for the price tag and gasp, “Hey, look how much this one is!” It would really liven things up.
    I might write to the Victoria & Albert and suggest this to them. I am a season-ticket holder, after all. They should listen to my opinion.
    In the meantime, let’s move on to the next glass case.
    Carved goblet, English, mid–15th century
    God, I could die for a cup of coffee. How long have I been here? It must be …
    Oh. Only fifteen minutes.
    When I get to the gallery showing a history of fashion, I become quite rigorous and scholarly. In fact, I spend longer there than anywhere else. But then the dresses and shoes come to an end and it’s back to more statues and little fiddly things in cases. I keep looking at my watch, and my feet hurt … and in the end I sink down onto a sofa.
    Don’t get me wrong, I like museums. I do. And I’m really interested in Korean art. It’s just that the floors are really hard, and I’m wearing quite tight boots, and it’s hot so I’ve taken off my jacket but now it keeps slithering around in my arms. And it’s weird, but I keep thinking I can hear the sound of a