The Tate Modern, a place to take partners, friends, children, and your disproportionate sense of entitlement...
Wednesday, it's raining, I have a dissertation to write, but the Tate Modern has just opened an installation of swings - basically an adult playground. So me and a friend decide to swing, (if you'll pardon the pun) by before heading to the library.
The hall is full of school trips as expected and it seems like we've picked a busy time of day; but as adults this is fine and we accept we might have to wait for a swing.
Sure enough (!!) we are soon presented with an opportunity and even ask someone to film us swinging away.
At this point it is important to note that their are two sizes of swing, one might gather from this that the artist intended to create two different experiences of motion rather than for the larger one to accommodate the egos of old men, but I'll come back to that...
In childish spirit we talk about getting the bigger swing as soon as it becomes free and one of us runs frantically over to it while the other gathers our belongings.
It was so frantic that a woman even exclaimed "oh you bugger" as she too made a dash for the empty seat. But I think it is important to again note that when she realised she had been beaten to the swing, she simply moved on to one of the other 10 surrounding large swings.
Enter the protagonist of this short tale.
For the purpose of good storytelling we will call him Donald. As all good villains require a fitting title.
I remember thinking it was sweet that two older men, around the age of 70 had come to an exhibition with their nokia phones which basically involved being in a playground. As two women in our 20s we were almost out of place among all the children the installation attracted.
Donald and his friend Alan sidled over to our swing and stood leaning against either side of the frame. This at first seemed inconsequential. When they realised we weren't getting off, surely they would walk away? Many of the other swings were becoming available much quicker?
I don't know if it was a mixture of Donald's inability to intercept a swing with the tactile agility of a small child, or simply a sense of stubborn entitlement, but it soon became clear that we were imposing.
We were uncomfortably aware of their presence, long before the tutting and watch checking commenced, but didn't think it would escalate further than that. Surely 70-odd years of experience has taught you that not everything comes to those who tut? Or even that imposing time constraints on a children's playground may be the greatest irony of the modern age?
Donald remained certain. He was to be next on the swing and we were to be made so uncomfortable by his presence that we would leave.
As if the father of an unruly 5 year old, Donald checked his watch one last time and asserted "right". To which my friend replied "are you timing us?" - which was arguably besides the point as we had been long aware that he was...
He responded by highlighting the fact we had spent 10 minutes on the swing, proving that we did not know how to share or queue, and thus inevitably rendering us non-British. This perplexed us slightly as we really couldn't see the connection, it appeared that conclusions had been jumped to.
We tried to explain that not only was this a playground, but part of an art exhibition open to all of the public for free. We had come on our day off, as had he and regardless of his 'polite' queueing by the side of the swing we were not going to be intimidated off of it.
Donald did not appreciate this and quickly exclaimed "go on Alan, take their picture".
We are sorry to say but this was a stroke of luck as we had been hoping that someone would take our photograph for a while - obviously under different circumstances, but beggars can't be choosers!
Our enjoyment of the situation only appeared to aggravate Donald further.
Our sense of "shame" was not nearly as great as he had hoped and unfortunately I grew up with the label of a stubborn child - it's now apparent that defiance doesn't dissipate with age. This was a matter of pride.
Our smiling, swinging, laughing defiance was too much for Donald...
"Scumbags"
Thus ensued some semi-hysterical laughter.
"Just you wait till you get off that swing, I'll give you a piece of my mind".
(Arguably even more reason to stay on the swing.)
Alan at this point is getting progressively more uncomfortable which led us to wonder whether this is a common practice for Donald and Alan has taken on the role of scorned sidekick one time too many?
A young couple approached the swing (which would have probably prompted us to leave had we not been engaged in this tug of war over pride). Turning to face them Donald muttered things such as "20 minutes", "scumbags" and "don't know how to queue".
It didn't take much awkward shuffling and nodding to prove that they were unconvinced. The couple were deterred quickly and wandered off to a different part of the hall.
Donald was seething at this point and began passive aggressively standing on our belongings which we had left in a pile next to the swing.
My scarf might have footprints but my pride is untarnished.
Adding insult to injury, we spotted the young couple who had been warned of us by Donald swinging, on a large swing, 5m to our right.
This gave us newfound strength.
With nothing left to lose, Donald took up protest, as the petulant child in a playground, in front of our swing.
How soft the embrace of my foot in his face would have felt I shall never know.
Evidently it became a matter of duty that he prevail the champion of the self-imposed queue system he had created.
It added a whole new element to the practice of swinging: now we were storybook heroes carefully dodging the dragon that stood at the foot of the mountain.
With a sharp intake of breath, Britishness returned to Donald's body and he decided that this was a matter best dealt with by the 'Head Teacher' of the Tate Playground, the security guard.
From our thrones of pride, we watched Donald animate and explain his story to the security guard. Around this time, a large wave of school children arrived.
With a safe distance of 20m from Donald and his wrath, we offered our seats to them- to carry the torch of youthful defiance into the afternoon.
Wobbly and blistered we left the Tate Modern.
Triumphant.
Stubborn.
But still wondering if it was unreasonable to ask for the picture they had taken of us...
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