The exhibition is overcrowded, lit dramatically and illegible.  Statues and engravings sit a random intervals accompanied by several names; the reign, their heir.  I assume all of them are skilled fiberglass replicas; why risk the travel after three millennia?  Behind the seated statue of one pharaoh, a father is pointing to the marks carved in the throne.

‘I can read hieroglyphics.  See, “A bird…flies over the waters…to the music…of the wind.”  See the bird, then…’

Every time I witness a shameless act of parenting, I’m reminded of an old teacher who used to take occasions speaking about children to emphasize the endless possibilities for control.  ‘You’re God to them,’ he’d say with a far-gone twinkle. ‘You’re in the car, turn on the windshield wipers, and you can make it rain!  You can make the rain stop!  Anything you tell them, they’ll believe.’  He was an English teacher.

As I walk on, I can hear the man repeating his reading, and the precise rephrasing of his statement makes me wonder whether he can actually read them.

I haven’t gone very far when a young fellow walks by.  He’s wearing a thick silver chain with a sparkling superman ‘S’ bouncing off the thick material of his hoodie.  A well cultivated mustache sticks out from his young, lanky lip.  ‘Yeah, I can pretty much read those signs,’ he says with a nod. ‘That language they use.’

‘Oh yeah?’ his female companion asks.

‘Yeah, no problem,’ he says