On my way out I talk to the volunteer Gatekeeper on duty. His ticket booth is a three square by five square heated box where he sells the entry ticket and diverse postcards, most of them of Karl Marx.
The Gatekeeper is an amiable quintessential Englishman of the learned variety.
"Have you ever lived abroad?" I ask him.
"No, I'm just a little English boy."
He has just finished transcribing David Copperfield for stage. In a month it will debut in the theatre above the Gatehouse Pub. He gives me a broad synopsis of Dickens' monument of self-discovery, which I appreciate, having read it over ten years ago. He particularly focuses on the machinations of Steerforth, Copperfield's one time friend and fiend.
He asks many questions, such as have I been here long, what have I seen, have I been to the British Museum yet?
We briefly discuss the Stephen Lawrence trial. The Gatekeeper decides It would be just lovely for him to have an Australian friend. He hasn't a racist bone in his body, yet I would make a good addition to his menagerie of acquaintances, who already include a Pakistani and a Brit of Chinese origin. I am flattered to be invited to dinner at the Gatehouse and we make arrangements for Monday evening.
He then asks how long I've been here, what have I seen and have I been to The British Museum yet?
"No," I again reply.
"Well we'll just have to cancel your visa then."
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