Hanging Around

By Beatrix Hart, aged 9

I stared around me, felt my limp brown hair coming down to my shoulders I felt my thin, smooth cheek. I felt the silky feel of my background I stared around the room looking at other people like me, trapped, scared, searching for their special place. My woollen dress itched and the cloth felt heavy on my shoulders like I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to be that person, I wanted adventure, a life. I sat stiffly up as a security guard came in doing the morning round. As soon as he was out of sight I slumped down again and chewed my perfect smile. It was going to be like any other day, a day of huge scary crowds all staring, not caring about our feelings or our thoughts. All they care about are selfies and social media. I twisted my hands scared of the day to come. The friendly clattering of the cleaner came in and started polishing the frames with his yellow fluffy duster and his familiar rough hands. The other younger one came in dropping equipment as he went. I was lucky. I had the lovely old experienced cleaner. I had always liked his shiny bald head and his big puffy moustache. He carefully buffed my edging and sprayed the beautiful glass case and wiped it so that the blindest mole could see through it. Then they left. That was my favourite five minutes of my day. The buzzing of the gallery was building I could hear the laughing chatting of the crowds at least they found it funny. The first few came in, cameras ready for action searching for a selfie opportunity. I breathed in that smell of hunger, laughter, modern day. Morning dragged on, about ten o’clock the big crowds came in and with them the deafening sound of click upon click. After a minute of this I fell back, my ears numb I could barely hear. Then the gallery slowly emptied for it is lunchtime. A time of peace and happiness, well it would be, but sadly this is also security guard time. A time where we all get examined, a time of sitting up straight and smiling. The worst ten minutes of the day. He’s the one who damages us. With his smart grey suit and oily black hair with a matching slippery moustache, I hate him. The noise is overpowering as it drifts in from the cafeteria. It’s like sitting in a airport all day. The afternoon soon comes and it drifts slowly along like a slug sliding across the gallery floor. Night comes and it is like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I can now sit back and stretch. The lights are switched off and darkness falls on me like a huge black blanket. Silence. My little plaque glitters in the darkness. Its gold lettering shimmers revealing ‘Mona Lisa by Leonardo Da Vinci’.