Fishmongers' Hall is a magnificent palace of London history

It was February of 1986 when I started to suspect that I didn't actually want to be a journalist. This was NOT a good thing.

Making England my hobby

I had decided on my life plan at 14. I doggedly followed my path for six years. The Damascene
realisation came in the spring of my senior year at university. I should have been locking down my first job, not wavering. Instead, I announced to my mother that I wanted to stay in school to get my PhD in English history.

With an ancestry split between Sicilians and the Irish, my mother was prone to emotion. But this sent her to new levels of alarm. Wasn't journalism bad enough? Children in my family were supposed to become doctors and lawyers. I was already disappointing. All a history degree would get me was an undervalued teaching job and a life of unfulfilled desire. (Exactly what my mother, an art historian, had ended up with.) I'd never get to any of those places I wanted to see, because though I'd have the summer off, I wouldn't have enough money to travel anywhere.

I needed to make England my HOBBY, and devote my LIFE to something that would give me a comfortable income.

Neither of us realised it at the time, but that was the most significant advice she was ever to give me. I followed orders. I topped up my journalism degree with a masters and then, in search of decent salaries, moved quickly through newspapers and university PR before I landed my first corporate job. The rest is history. If mentoring a young professional, I can tell a different tale of thoughtful career progression, but the reality is that all I really cared about was England and English history. My work was the necessary evil to fuel my passion.

In my 20s, my motivation was earning enough cash for as many holidays to the country as possible. My first work assignments in England had nothing to do with my growth plan, though that was the official line. It was getting me to the place where weekends and evenings would have meaning. I accepted my first full-time job here with no cost-of-living comparisons, pensions considerations or career path contemplation; all I could think of was a life of using my National Trust card every weekend!

As I got more senior in my UK jobs, the opportunities rolled in. Corporate dinners in the Banqueting House in Whitehall. Private group access to the Ceremony of the Keys. Cocktails in the Dorchester's one-of-a-kind, Oliver Messel-designed penthouse. And, most remarkably, a seat at the last State Opening of Parliament before the elimination of the hereditary peers. Every professor of English history would want to do such things. Very few do. For London's business elite, however, this stuff is part of the job. Great historical settings, unique access and picturesque traditions energise a business community that loves to slip on formal wear and enjoy a good party.

I couldn't help thinking of that last night as I lifted my long skirts to process up the grand marble staircase at Fishmongers' Hall, to then be formally announced by a "beadle" in traditional dress banging his ceremonial staff on the floor and formally announcing me. This had all the hallmarks of one of those memorable, history-soaked events. The occasion was the investiture of one of my friends and former colleagues as the master of the Worshipful Company of Marketors. And though this "Livery Company", as it's formally known, only dates back to the 1970s, the event drew from traditions that stretch all the way back to London's Medieval guilds. In fact, it's the origin of those guilds, set up to ensure proper training and management of different professions, that still lies at the heart of these gatherings today.

The Master and her "court" wear robes that Americans would associate with university graduations. The higher the position, the more adorned with chains of office, medals, gold or fur trim. Most Livery Companies also have a ceremonial affiliation with a branch of the military, which seems to mostly be about making sure that people with splendid uniforms add to the visual appeal of the occasion. Of course, when men are in white tie and tails ... or tuxedos if dressing down ... and women in long gowns, everyone's looking quite grand anyway.

Dining tables are set up as you've seen in the great Oxbridge colleges or, more likely, in Harry Potter films: the most important people at a head table stretching across the top of the room, with long tables descending from that at a right angle for all the guests. The ceremonial silver of the guild hall hosting the event is scattered along the tables; given how old and well-endowed many of these establishments are, that can be a formidable spread. The important people process in with great pomp, in the case of the Master of the Marketors proceeded by a sword of state and a bagpiper. (The latter isn't usual; the new Master was injecting a bit of her native Scottish flare.) There's a long, venerable program of formal toasts running in between courses of excellent food and wine, each one requiring a rise to your feet. So much popping up and down, in fact, I wondered if someone whipped up this concept during the Reformation as a comforting substitute for the Catholic Mass. Toasts end with a robust belting out of "God Save the Queen".

Most delightful, however, is the loving cup ceremony that takes place towards the end of the meal. It's popular throughout all of London's Livery Companies, and supposedly dates back to the assassination of King Edward the Martyr in 987, though it smacks of the re-invention of ancient traditions so typical of the Victorians. It is, essentially, an elaborate way of sharing a drink while pledging your friendship and protection to your colleagues. The cup is an oversized, lidded chalice with two graceful handles. Each sip requires three people: the drinker holds the cup, his partner

facing him removes the lid (with his dagger hand, another pledge of safety), while the person who's just been the drinker now turns his back to the current drinker to protect him. The drinker sips, wipes his spot with a ceremonial napkin, lets the lid be replaced and then hands the cup to the one who just held the lid for him. And then it starts over.

It's the lavish settings, of course, that lend credibility to tradition-laden events like this. You could dress everyone up and perform all the ceremonies in a modern hotel ballroom, but in those surroundings it would all feel like children play-acting. (American debutante balls come vividly to mind.) The backdrop dignifies everything and breathes history through proceedings.

Though London has 110 Livery Companies, only about 40 of them have their own halls and those tend to be the ones that date back to the Middle Ages. There may not be much call for armourers, glovemakers and mercers these days, but their halls do a roaring trade hiring out to all the companies that don't have their own. Or to anyone who has the cash to book them. You've probably seen many of them without knowing it, as their grand interiors often show up in historical productions as palaces or stately homes. Despite the Medieval roots, most of the halls are grand Georgian affairs, with a sprinkling of Victorian and Edwardian architecture, and many are re-creations of originals destroyed in WW2 firebombing. True to their roots, they all use art and architecture to proclaim that their members are just as worthy as aristocrats or royals. These are palaces of business.

Fishmongers' Hall is a Palladian mansion that wouldn't look out of place dropped in the middle of a vast Capability Brown park. It just happens to stand next to the Thames, at the northwest corner of London Bridge. This is at least the fourth version of the fishing industry's HQ to occupy this site since the 14th century. A grand entry hall leads through to a monumental staircase that rises to a landing in front of the life-sized statue of some Tudor-era worthy before splitting and climbing around the sides of the space, eventually joining a gallery above. Grand reception rooms radiate off this, the ones looking over the Thames offering spectacular views. The massive barrel-vaulted hall directly behind the staircase is a room so grand it wouldn't be out of place at Windsor Castle.

Though what you see today is 1950s restoration, it's true to the lavish Regency/Georgian design that stood here before the war. There are mosaic floors and grand coffered ceilings, engaged marble columns and lofty mahogany door surrounds, cornices dripping with ornate plasterwork and crystal chandeliers still illuminated by scores of candles. The identity of the Fishmongers is stamped everywhere, though without concession to the idea this might ever be a hard, dirty or smelly profession. The badges of past masters in carved and painted wood grace the walls. Life-sized merpeople brandishing weapons support the company's crest. The art collection is noticeably piscene, whether it's oversized 17th century still-lives of fishmonger's stalls or

a modern mobile that looks like a school of golden minnows. Most magnificent are the silver wall sconces, where fish the size of massive salmon twine around each other and Poseidon's trident; candle-holders project from the fish mouths. There's also an impressive collection of royal portraiture, including a beautiful depiction of Queen Victoria as a very young monarch and Annigoni's famous portrait of Queen Elizabeth II ... one of the best of her as a young woman.

It is, quite simply, an honour to be a part of anything in this setting, and even better when the ceremonies you're a part of connect you to generations past. I've come a long way since my main reason for working in the UK was to get myself into events like this. But the wonder hasn't worn off. And I'll pledge you a loving cup that for me, it never will.

Note: Londoners may remember that Fishmongers' Hall was the scene of the terrorist attack late last year in which a young man on early release had from his prison term for terrorist offences had been attending a workshop there, went on the attack when leaving, stabbed five and killed two before being shot dead. Whoever booked a venue this grand for an offender rehabilitation meeting should be facing some serious questions. Bringing people who have issues with authority into an opulent palace that celebrates the lofty establishment could only ever foster anger and resentment. It makes no sense. The famous narwhal tusk, grabbed by a staff member and used to keep the terrorist at a distance, is no longer on display. One assumes it's in an evidence store somewhere...

London's latest Tut show rises above its commercial roots

I was so sceptical about the current Tutankhamun exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery that I almost didn't go.

The last time a much-hyped bunch of the supposed treasures of Egypt's best known pharaoh turned up in London (2007/08) I spent a fortune and trekked across town to a temporary exhibition space in the 02 to be distinctly underwhelmed. I was so unimpressed with the lacklustre assembly of artefacts that I didn't even bother to write a blog article about it (though you can read The Guardian's brutal assessment here.) A huge advertising campaign promised wonder on par with the famous exhibition in the '70s. The reality was just a handful of golden treasures, a lot of secondary pieces related to Tut's ancestry and a strangely industrial exhibition space that looked like you were viewing a display in a shopping mall. Turns out the Cairo museum was desperate to raise cash for a new wing and had dreamed up the uninspiring road show in an attempt to fleece punters who couldn't make it to Egypt. You could see better stuff for free in the British Museum.

Would I fall for the same bait-and-switch tactics twice? At first, I refused. Though the setting is marginally more cultural (the Saatchi Gallery rather than the completely commercial O2) than the last outing, the ticket prices are even more eye-watering. Peak time tickets ... the weekends and evenings most of the population would want to go ... are an astounding £28.50 for adults. That's 30% to 50% more than the typical blockbuster museum show. Rather than being academically curated, it's produced by IMG, the famous events management group. Tickets are handled through Ticketmaster (who will charge you more than £3 extra for the privilege of booking in advance). There are six other corporate sponsors. Advertising is prolific. It felt more like a rock concert than a cultural experience. A friend of mine with solid Egyptian cultural creds rubbished it as "a star vehicle for Zahi Hawass", the former Egyptian Minister of State for Antiquities Affairs with a Hollywood star's flair for self-promotion.

But then I found myself with a day off in London on a gloomy weekday. There was nothing else that interested me on the cultural scene at the moment other than the British Museum's Troy exhibition, which I'd already seen (and reviewed here).  I could take advantage of the "off peak" walk up tickets for £25. Two weeks earlier we'd put a deposit down on a 2021 Nile excursion with the show's lead sponsor, Viking Cruises. It seemed foolishly stubborn to deny the opportunity.

I'm so glad I ignored my fears. Tutankhamun: Treasures of the Golden Pharaoh is an excellent show that delivers enough awe to merit its pricey entrance fee, and has enough intellectual heft to be worthy of the British Museum. The motivation is the same as the 2008 debacle ... raising money for the new museum building now set to open later this year ... but the implementation is vastly different. There are 150 treasures on display here, and while they don't include the iconic funerary mask there's enough gold, furniture, statuary and burial objects to drop your jaw repeatedly. Unable to completely eschew bait-and-switch, organisers do imply the golden mask is here; they're actually showing a close up of a gold and inlaid enamel miniature coffin used to store the preserved body's vital organs. It's a wonder on its own.  Indeed, there's enough here that I found myself pondering if visitors to the current Tut displays in the Cairo museum felt cheated by what was out on the latest world tour. But it turns out Howard Carter excavated more than 5,000 objects out of Tut's tomb. Impressive as these items are, they're a fraction of the total.

The show is cleverly divided between floors. On the ground level you meet Tut himself, understand his journey through the afterlife and end in a room that evokes the burial chamber, where a replica mummy is dressed with and surrounded by the funerary amulets and jewellery that would protect the king on his journey. Upstairs galleries bring the story into our own time, explaining how Carter found the tomb, what the excavations were like and the impact "Tutmania" had on modern life. Several pieces on display here are potent reminders of the inspiration the Art Deco movement took from Carter's discoveries. The show ends with the most recent, high-tech analysis into Tut's fate, then brings you face-to-face with a colossus statue of the king in his own cavernous gallery complete with sound and light effects.

So what does moving culture from the hands of museum curators to those of international event producers, and charging punters %30 over the odds, get you? Crowd management is excellent. There's a beautiful intro video on a wrap-around screen that starts your experience, but also controls the flow of visitors by creating a 5-minute break before introducing each new group. Many of the items are in display cases that can be walked around on all sides, all of them on at least three, giving plenty of room for gawping. There's a generous amount of space between displays and ... most critically ... many cases tower up to the ceiling, where their upper levels contain video screens that show what's below and tell you about it. Meaning that while you're queuing up to take a look you're preparing yourself for what you're about to see. Undoubtably it also means most people won't spend as much time in front of objects as they don't have to read the descriptions while they stand there.

The labels are a masterpiece of clear communication; someone has put a lot of effort into great storytelling that gives enough detail but doesn't stray into boring academia. The lighting is fantastic, low in the galleries overall but with sensitive spotlights throwing object detail into high relief. I didn't have to reach for my reading glasses once which ... for a woman of a certain age ... is saying a lot. There are high-tech cut-away diagrams, short films and interesting lighting effects such as a 3-D projection of the ostrich feathers that would have emerged from a dazzling fan base, or another inviting you down the stairs to the tomb. There's atmospheric, new age-style music throughout. Most proper art critics hate this, but I think it adds to the atmosphere. These are the kinds of multi-media effects that are popping up increasingly in museum exhibitions, but they're usually deployed sparingly. This show lays them on thickly, throughout.

The road show stars been carefully curated. Everything has been cleaned and restored to such an extent that most of it looks like it was made last year rather than 3000+ years ago. Gold glistens. Wood glows. Pottery glazes gleam. Game pieces sit on a board that seems as if it's just been temporarily abandoned. The king's bed lacks only a mattress to put it back into bling-y service. There isn't a chest, vase or ornament here I wouldn't happily accept into my own home. (Well, maybe not the bed.) Those Egyptians had taste.

The result of this careful curation is that there are few incidentals on display here. Just about every item in every case could be a masterpiece on its own, and rewards careful study. It's hard to pick favourites in such an all-star lineup, though I was particularly captivated by the realism of the animal forms: a lizard curled at the joint of an alabaster vase and stand, almost invisible; the faience lion's head on the tips of the king's bow case; another snarling feline at the prow of his hunting skiff; a noble falcon sporting the sun disc on his head.

Other stand-outs for me included an exquisite pen case in an inlaid tube carved to look like an ornate column,

the small ebony-and-ivory inlaid throne that emphasised just how little Tut was when he took the throne

and a wooden model of the boy king in his sarcophagus that practically breathed with life.

And while that gold and enamel viscera case might not be the famous mask, it is an astonishing treasure, sensitively displayed so you can inspect its mind-boggling detail front, back, inside and out.

There are places where the crass consumerism still shines through. The amusement-park style queuing outside the building and again once you've entered but are waiting to start viewing artefacts, is frustrating when you've paid such a premium to get in. Both were blessedly empty when I attended, suggesting that the whole thing's been over-hyped. The fun fair continues in queue two, where you pass through a photo station where a photographer takes a shot of you and your party against a green screen. Later on in the gift shop you can super-impose yourself in front of your choice of ancient Egyptian backgrounds to make it look like you went to the source. And that's just the start of the most over-the-top gift shop I've ever seen associated with a cultural exhibition.

There are two enormous rooms low on educational content and high on the cheap and tawdry. There are pharaonic mask hoods for your next costume outing and sunglasses with a kingly-crown if you want to look the part next summer. There's a whole range of tee shirts and sportswear. Row after row of reproductions beckon; less the tasteful stuff you're likely to find in the British Museum and more of the made-in-China stuff I imagine Cairo street vendors flog tourists for whatever coins they can bargain out of them. There were a handful of lovely things and an attractive, accessible exhibition catalogue, but they were eclipsed by an array you'd imagine finding if you just came out of the Egyptian Adventure ride at Disney. Frankly, I'm surprised there wasn't a Lego tomb set. If you were escorting kids here, this is all probably great fun ... though how you'd afford to buy them any of this tat after the cost of the tickets and London travel, who knows. For me, as the daughter of an art historian who spent part of her career working in museums, it was a hideous and tacky devaluing of a show that, otherwise, was top notch.

Tut's London visit is worth your time and investment, but try to get there on a weekday and skip through that gift shop fast.

The Rise of Skywalker hits all a long-time fan's sweet spots

This post is spoiler-free. I promise.

It is nearly impossible to explain the impact of the original Star Wars film to fans who weren't there from the beginning. Which, when it comes to the thousands flocking to see the end of the saga on its opening weekend, now means most of them.

I can still remember the details of that hot, humid summer night in July of 1977. The film had been out in St. Louis for about a month; a buzz had been building but it was far from epic. I'd wanted to see it earlier, but we'd gone on holiday to see family in LA right after school had broken up and I couldn't convince anyone to see it with me. So I'd been writhing in anticipation for a fortnight and must have been one of the few people in the universe who had read the book before seeing the film. Yes, some enterprising marketer had released a paperback version of the story into airports when the film launched.

My friends and I had talked our parents into driving us across town to one of the few cinemas that retained its original, full-size screen. In the late '70s the economy was bad, the film industry was in crisis and owners of grand old theatres were chopping their big auditoria and broad screens into an array of smaller screening rooms. The birth of the modern cineplex. But not, in 1977, at Creve Coeur cinema.

It's also worth remembering that at the time science fiction was out of fashion, and the TV shows where it made its only stand (reruns of Lost in Space or British import Space: 1999) had fairly dreadful special effects. Grand, orchestral film soundtracks had also been left behind in the '60s. Or at least they were certainly beyond the experience of the average 12-year-old. So when the lights went down and those mesmerising letters started receding in a way we'd never seen before to the fanfare of a grand overture, we were amazed. Then the first imperial cruiser slid into view ... and went on and on across that giant screen ... and we had to remind ourselves to breathe. We had never, quite literally, seen anything like that. And the same could be said for everything that followed in the next joyous two hours.

The first video recorder and player wouldn't be released in the USA for another two months, and it would be years before watching movies on demand at home became a part of our lives. We were used to films coming and going. They might reappear on television a few years later, or maybe get a cinema re-release every few years (which is how my generation saw all the Disney classics), but if you really loved a movie you needed to see it again and again before it disappeared. Which is why I saw the original Star Wars 10 more times before it left cinema screens. There was no hope of buying a copy of the film for years, but Topps issued photo cards with their bubble gum. I had every one, assembled in order in a sort of DIY comic book version of the film.

None of the films that followed had quite the same emotional impact. My fandom never grew to Comic Con or cosplay dimensions, though I did attend a friend's '70s themed hen party as Princess Leia because it's the only costume I could come up with from the whole decade that wasn't a fashion embarrassment. But the franchise probably represents one of the longest-running relationships in my life. Forty-two years is a long time to be emotionally involved in a place and a group of people.

So there was a lot riding on Episode 9, promised as the conclusion of George Lucas' epic vision of three linked trilogies telling a multi-generational story of ambition, love, fear and redemption. Director JJ Abrams has delivered everything that the 12-year-old me would have wanted. Critics have been more lukewarm but may be missing the point. Fans like me aren't judging this on its artistic merits, we're looking for closure. We want someone to wrap us up in a comforting blanket of fond childhood memories, give us a cup of cocoa and assure us that everything comes right in the end. 12-year-old me is very, very happy.

Every major plot line you want to be wrapped up is done so in a plot that zips along at a roaring pace and stretches credulity far less than some of the other films. There are no boring bits nor superfluous adventures to give minor characters plot lines. Kudos to the scriptwriters who started with excess Carrie Fisher footage and managed to build a believable ... indeed, critical ... role for her character without using CGI. Of course, it's not just Leia. Pretty much everyone who's ever mattered shows up in one way  or another. Superfans will be particularly delighted to see Denis Lawson's Wedge Antilles still piloting a fighter; by my count the only rebel pilot to survive since the days of the original Death Star.

There are visually arresting new locations to add to the trip down memory lane, including a Burning Man festival with aliens, the ruined Death Star lashed by vicious seas and a magnificently creepy Sith home world. Richard E. Grant joins the cast as a suitably dastardly inheritor of Peter Cushing's malevolence. The acting, particularly Daisy Ridley and Adam Driver's is-this-hate-or-love tension, is perhaps the best we've seen across the nine films, and the one-liners scattered throughout for comic relief are a joy.

We sat through all of the credits, listening to John Williams' now-classic music, wishing it weren't really over. I could have sat through the whole thing again. Immediately. Pretty much the way I felt on that hot, sticky night in 1977. I probably won't see The Rise of Skywalker another 10 times in the cinema, but there's no doubt I'll be buying it on release and watching it again many times in the future. There are times you just need to give in to your inner 12-year-old.

Food and wine cross the centuries to bring Pompeii to life

The word for a Roman dinner party is a convivium; literally "a being together". A word we've absorbed into English to characterise a good time. The Romans' predecessors in central Italy, the Etruscans, often chose to have themselves immortalised for eternity as they would have been in the middle of a jolly feast. Wine cup in hand and snacks at their elbows, their terracotta avatars recline atop their funerary urns while reminding us of the pleasures of life.  While many nationalities take their culinary traditions seriously, the Italians have a spiritual bond between food, drink, life and love that's been hard-wired into their culture from the beginning.

Oxford's Ashmolean Museum builds its current exhibition, Last Supper in Pompeii, on this simple truth. The result is a joyous romp through a laid-back, pleasure-seeking culture most of us would have been delighted to be a part of ... until one Mount Vesuvius decided to intervene.

Pompeii is familiar territory for many history lovers and always a popular draw. The British Museum's last major exhibition on the subject was just six years ago. (My review here.) But the food angle is an inspired one, bringing the people of Pompeii to life in a very relatable way while also opening the door to display a vast amount of art and artefacts. Pretty much everything in Pompeii seemed to lead back to a good party.

We're welcomed by a life-sized statue of Bacchus on loan from the Archeological Museum in Naples, source of many of the best items here. (This is a potent reminder of just how rich that museum is; both this show and the British Museum's current Troy exhibition are stuffed with loans from there, yet their core collection is so vast I doubt visitors in Naples would notice.) Bacchus holds a wine jug in his hand, grapes and vines weave through his tousled hair and his fit yet louche pose is imbued with a raw sexuality. The message is clear: these people liked a good time.

The early galleries explain the role of celebratory food and drink in Italian culture, then take a look at why Pompeii was such a special place. Anyone who's been on that stretch of the Italian coast knows that it's favoured with clement, sunny weather and generally mild, beautiful seas that yielded enormous catches for little work. The surrounding landscape is green and gentle, and the slopes beneath Vesuvius were almost obscenely fertile. Locals had no idea the reason was volcanic soil. One of the treasures of the show is a wall painting containing the only contemporary depiction of Vesuvius before it blew its top in 79 AD. It was a towering, quiet, wooded mountain. The Italians were familiar with volcanos, but nobody suspected one beneath the familiar peak.

Two impressive galleries at the heart of the exhibition set the story in the garden and dining room, often interchangeable for culinary good times and always at the heart of the ancient Roman household. Though small panels of fresco are on display throughout, here we have whole walls transported in their entirety to set the scene.

Videos on a continuous loop on other walls enhance the illusion. One is a particularly lifelike conjuring of one of Pompeii's most glamorous eating spaces, with dining couches set in a raised, highly-decorated apse through which a narrow water feature ran to join the pool in the garden you would have faced through the meal. Garden dining tables with water flowing through them still show up at Hampton Court or Chelsea most years, suggesting that Pompeiian designers knew what they were about.

The room beyond this is more practical, reflecting the kitchen itself. These were small spaces compared to the lavish dining areas they served, but the preserved foods and spices brought up in excavations and on display here attest to the Romans wide-ranging tastes. The exhibition ends with a section on Britannia, where the objects aren't nearly as elegant but the message is clear. Out here in the hinterlands people were doing their best to copy the fine dining trends in the imperial capital, whether in tableware or cooking styles.

We end with a section on death, marking the abrupt end of Pompeii's party beneath Vesuvius' toxic gas and ash fall. Two of the most haunting treasures wait here, in suitably sombre lighting. The first is a magnificent bronze of the god Apollo, with his ivory and lapis eyes still intact and radiating life. He was probably used to support a tray of drinks or canapés in a wealthy home, but here ... positioned at the end of a corridor of tomb monuments ... he seems to be welcoming you to the afterlife. Just beyond him is the Lady of Oplontis.

Anyone who's visited Pompeii will have seen, and probably been haunted by, the plaster casts of the victims of the disaster. These were made quite simply, by pouring plaster into cavities in the ash left when human (or animal) soft tissue had disintegrated. Finds are still happening but casting methods have moved on. This lady's final resting place was discovered in the late 1970s and she's cast in resin, which captures far more detail, from the treasure she'd wrapped her body around to the painful tension in her face and limbs. One hopes she enjoyed her life, because it was a horrible death.

But as thought provoking as these big pieces are, it's the smaller bits of normal life that will stick with you. The exhibition is stuffed with the kinds of everyday objects that wouldn't be out of place in our own kitchens, dining rooms and gardens. Many are humble, some are ridiculously grand ... almost all would have been objects of desire at their time of manufacture.

The paraphernalia for storing, decanting and serving wine could be a mini-exhibition on its own. There are delicate glass vases and drinking cups and silver vessels with extraordinary details like incised patterns, lions heads and frolicking animals. But the item I'd bring home with me was a silver strainer, used for separating sediment from the wine, punched with ornate patterns of geometric precision.

The cookware was equally fascinating, and surprising in just how familiar much of it seems. There's a barbecue grill you could put into service immediately, and a pan with six cups that looks precisely like the one I keep meaning to buy to produce Danish aebleskiver (apple donuts). The Romans, it's thought, used it to cook eggs or cakes. There are spice storage vessels, colanders, griddles and cooking pots that haven't changed their form in 2,000 years. Not everything is familiar to the modern eye, however. The Romans had a legendary fondness for dormice, which it turns out they raised for household consumption. You can see a purpose-made dormouse pot complete with a spiral of running paths moulded into the terracotta sides. Basically an early habitrail with a tasty snack as the final objective.

It's rare that an exhibition about the ancient world can bridge the centuries and bring people to life. Through a shared love of food and wine, this show does that with the flare of a Michelin starred restaurant. Get there in its final weeks if you can. (The show closes on 12 January.)

The Bridge's spectacle will delight most children, but true Narnians should beware

Film and theatre producers take on classic books at their peril. The challenge grows steeper if those books are associated with famous illustrations. Peter Jackson’s Middle Earth and the Harry Potter franchise are generally accepted as successful incarnations of their authors' original visions, but even they occasionally go off piste to frustrate the ardent fan.

I remember having a good giggle six years ago when my husband recoiled in horror at the inclusion of a new Elven character, and her far-fetched love story, in The Hobbit. I thought it was a well-judged addition, bringing more female interest into an almost exclusively male story. My husband wasn’t buying that argument.

Now it’s my turn to grumble as The Bridge Theatre brings The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe to life.

The Narnia books were the seminal stories of my childhood and from the age of eight I probably re-read them once a year. In adulthood the frequency dropped, but I doubt I’ve ever gone more than five years without revisiting the series. You might even suggest the books altered the course of my life, since that wardrobe first planted the idea in my head that the gateway to a better world sat in the English countryside. My obsession with England grew to something that eventually drew me here permanently. I’m not going to claim I can recite them by heart, but I know each of the seven Narnia tales exceptionally well and could probably dissect the mythological, literary and religious context in each off the top of my head.

Yes, I’m a Narnia geek. Which is why all of the things that weren’t right in The Bridge’s production got in the way of me really enjoying it.

There was the unnecessarily enhanced backstory. The idea that the children went to Professor Kirke’s by chance. The stripping away of the fancy accents, well-bred behaviour and proper syntax of 1940s English to give us democratised, seemingly modern kids. (The fact that the Pevensies came across as so posh and different from my own experience made it more credible to me they could step up to such grand adventures.) The lamp-post wasn’t right; it should be one armed thanks to an incident in The Magician’s Nephew. Father Christmas does not warn Susan and Lucy that their weapons are meant for self-defence and they are not to fight. He doesn’t give Susan her horn at all. (Thus eliminating the possibility of future stories, as that's what calls them back to Narnia for Prince Caspian.) Lucy and Susan's pacifist warning was clearly left out to create a more modern gender balance. It’s Lucy and not Peter who kills the evil wolf, Maugrim. (Thus eliminating the possibility of him receiving one of his titles, Sir Peter Wolfsbane.) And just to add to the modern twists, it’s Mrs. Beaver who ventures out to rescue the children initially while Mr. Beaver stays home cooking a vegan hotpot.

I could probably live with most of these, but had a harder time swallowing the pantomime elements. I should not have been surprised. It is, after all, the Christmas season. And while this Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe doesn’t approach full “he’s behind you” silliness, they’ve definitely souped the plot up with lashings of comedy plus several musical numbers to fight for parents' holiday theatre investment. That includes a clog-dancing Father Christmas and instrument-playing reindeer who lead the Narnians in a folk music jamboree. Quite a departure from the solemn scene in the book where the children are entrusted with the potent tools that, with their acceptance, start to transform them from human children into the kings and queens of Narnia.

Bottom line: I’ve always seen this as a very serious story, and the slapstick bits really bothered me.

 I am certainly in the minority, however, as the reviews have been uniformly strong. This show is meant for kids, after all, not 55-year-old Narnia pedants. The real gulf between me and the critics, however, goes back to the source material. Hip, "woke", New Age media types can't stand the traditional morality and overt Christianity of the books. The TimeOut reviewer's starting point ... CS Lewis’s ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ – with its well-spoken child heroes, twee talking animals and heavy Christian vibes – can be left looking a bit old-fashioned ... is common amongst most media types and is, no doubt, what the modern production was trying to "fix".

If the list of variations from the book feels like unimportant minutiae, and you see no problem with the comedy injection, then you will probably enjoy the performance enormously. The youngsters in the audience seemed delighted. There's no denying that, artistically, it's gorgeous.

Bewitched Narnia ... where it's always winter but never Christmas ... comes to life as stately, white-clad dryads (tree spirits) stride in from the back of the auditorium with enormous trains flowing behind. These cross and spread over the stage to create a snowscape. The witch's sledge is a towering, ship-like prow or, when turned around, a menacing throne. There are strong elements of The Lion King, War Horse and the National Theatre's His Dark Materials here as puppetry and exotic head-dresses turn actors into the animals of Narnia. Perhaps a little too much of the last, as Wil Johnson's Aslan seems to be able to walk away from the exquisite carapace of the lion above him at will, as if they are man and daemon rather than one being. Without the lion head his costume was a bit too much music festival shaman for Lewis' incarnation of the Almighty Father. But Johnson's rich voice and compelling performance, with just the right mix of power, love and vulnerability, lets you forget he's less than leonine.

Given that the good animals of Narnia are so often played for laughs, its the bad guys who provide the most impressive visual drama. Laura Elphinstone delivers a malevolent, mercurial and icy cold Queen Jadis true to the power-hungry dictator of the books. The scene when she's sure she's won and levitates towards the roof to fill the world with her billowing, demon-drenched skirts, is magnificent. Omari Bernard's wolf Maugrim is suitably menacing and, other than Aslan, the only Narnian who actually comes across as an animal, rather than a human who's put on silly ears. The convocation of the dark beasts at the stone table and their cruel tormenting before Aslan's sacrifice is a potent reminder that these books have lasted so long because the simple stories sit atop deep, powerful themes.

Of the children, only John Leader's Edmund is truly memorable, though why he has a Midlands accent when his three siblings speak as Londoners is another of the show's weird discrepancies. (Maybe Edmund's surly chip on his shoulder is not because he always plays second to Peter, but because his parents fostered him to a family in Birmingham as an infant?) One of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe's key themes is the power of forgiveness, and the scene where Edmund returns to the fold ... Aslan having completely forgiven him, but Edmund needing to come to terms with his shame and disappointment in himself before he accepts the grace of a higher power ... is played on both sides with an emotional impact that will bring tears to your eyes.

Otherwise, the Pevensies are woefully under-realised. This is supposed to be a coming of age story for each of them, yet we see very little growth. There's lots of capering, giggling and running about ... the last in several numbers that feel like the choreography was cribbed from Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. I can't tell whether it was the acting, the staging or the script, but these remained young adults playing at being children, who never really grew into their Narnian alter-egos. This is most obvious at the very end when they should be decades older, acting with the majesty of Medieval monarchs and unable to remember their Earthly origins. That's all part of what makes their departure from Narnia so wrenching. It's an accidental eviction from Eden.

It was always going to be hard to take them as the High Kings and Queens, of course, when they were crowned with jester's bobble hats by rainbow-clad millennials (almost all animal references had disappeared by now) who look like they're giving their Glastonbury costumes a trial run for next summer. The spectacle of giant flowers being passed over the audience is joyous, the dance number fun, but these capering festival goers are a long way from the Medieval utopia of Lewis' Narnia.

I appreciate that most people won't care about the deviations from the books, and may even find them to be improvements. But, ultimately, what I believe should matter to everyone is the lack of intellectual depth, and how derivative the production is. By turning it into a Christmas show, Sally Cookson has gutted a thoughtful, instructive classic that is many children's first introduction to deeper themes, and left behind only the entertainment. Her production is beautiful, but its creative ideas are lifted heavily from other big shows like Lion King and Cursed Child. Even her dance-party ending seems a repeat; we just did it in this same theatre six months ago for A Midsummer Night's Dream (where it worked much better).

London reviewers are heaping praise on Cookson, but for those two infractions this Narnian can't forgive her.

New Troy show celebrates foundations of Western storytelling

After a two-month Japanese hiatus, it was time to re-engage with Western civilisation. Troy seemed a good place to start.

The three epics that sprng from the fall of this legendary city ... The Iliad, The Odyssey and The Aeneid ... are arguably the foundations from which all the rest of Western literature springs. Every basic plot line that writers have been spinning and enhancing for 3,000 years starts here: star-crossed lovers; the toxicity of jealousy; duty vs. desire; dysfunctional families; the nature of friendship; the capriciousness of fate ... and so much more. This is the genesis of storytelling. (And pre-dates the official Book of Genesis by as much as 500 years.) Much of the time, artists and writers haven't even bothered to invent their own variations on the theme. They've simply re-told these great tales from Roman mosaics to medieval tapestries, Renaissance plays to modern film.

That's the lens through which the British Museum sees things in its new exhibition Troy: Myth and Reality. Blockbuster shows here usually assemble the cultural treasures of lost civilisations to allow us to imagine what they must have been like in their glory days. There is a bit of the real Troy here, but those humble artefacts can't compare to the art that's been created in celebration of what may (or may not) have happened there.

To remind you of the basics: three goddesses are debating their supremacy. They pick a human to arbitrate, Paris, Prince of Troy, and bribe him shamelessly. He falls for the offer of Aphrodite, goddess of love: the most beautiful woman in the world will be his. Problem is, she's married to King Meneleaus of Sparta. Paris and Helen run away to Troy. Meneleaus rallies his brother, King Agamemnon of Mycenae, and all the other Greeks, to sail to Troy to get Helen back. Many adventures and side-plots take place as they're gathering the troops.

When the Greeks get to Troy, they find the city too strong to take, so they start a siege that lasts 10 years. Many more adventures and side-plots ensue as they camp on the beach below town. Eventually, a series of tragedies leads to an epic battle between two of the greatest heroes of all time, Greece's Achilles and Troy's Hector. Achilles wins, but his brutal desecration of Hector's body pretty much ensures that he'll die soon after. Unable to break the siege, the Greeks finally win by treachery, pretending to give up and sailing away but leaving a wooden horse as an offering to the sea god Poseidon on the beach. The Trojans bring it inside. Greeks are hiding within. The city falls. Nobody ever trusts a Greek gift again. That gets us through The Illiad.

Then there are two sequels. The first, also by Homer, tells us about the journey home of Odysseus. He was the genius who came up with the horse idea, and was basically the tricksy strategist throughout Part 1. But he sucks at navigation.  He spends 10 years getting home, regularly frustrated by capricious gods who'd been on the Trojan side and want him to pay for his tricks. Even the most basic perusal of a map will suggest that a decade of travel time between Troy and Odysseus' kingdom of Ithaca is preposterous (you could drive it today in 14 hours). But Odysseus' adventures through the islands of the Aegean and Mediterranean are a ripping good yarn.

At the same time Odysseus is going through his travails, a Trojan prince by the name of Aeneas manages to escape the flaming ruins of his city. He also has a rip-roaring series of adventures, including making the queen of Carthage fall in love with him and throw herself on a bonfire when he leaves her. Because he's got better things to do. Namely, travelling up the Italian peninsula to become one of the founders of Rome. This is one of history's earliest examples of PR spin, as author Virgil whipped up this fantasy 1,000 years after Homer's original epic to give his scrappy upstart of a country a more noble backstory. It worked.

The first half of the exhibition tells these stories and some of their more popular spin-offs through the medium of classical art. The British Museum has been able to mine its own collections extensively. Greek vases that normally sit upstairs on shelves with scores of others are called out to individual glory here, their storytelling enhanced by projected text and images and, occasionally, a soundtrack. Early on, hearing the cadence of the lines in ancient Greek before they’re translated into English reminds you that these tales were poems created to be listened to, and translations never capture the music of the original. Sculpture, wall paintings from Pompeii, sarcophagi and other treasures augment the tale, sourced selectively from other museums.

My favourite piece was an enormous table base depicting Scylla and Charybdis (an episode from The Odyssey) on loan from Naples’ magnificent archaeological museum. The two writhing sea-monsters, each the size of a person, would have hoisted the table on their backs. The sculptor was clearly more interested in beauty than capturing the menace of the story, since both “monsters” are deeply attractive and the three-headed hound accompanying one ... who is supposed to be ripping drowning sailors to shreds ... looks like a drowsy spaniel gnawing on an after-dinner bone.

Even before we leave the classical age, there are signs of the tale’s global traction. There’s a beautiful repousse silver cup with a scene from Achilles’ life, made by the Romans and unearthed in a Danish chieftain’s grave. (Proving that the Danes have always had cosmopolitan tastes.) More surprising is a scene showing the Trojan horse being brought into the city, localised for the Indian market. A Hindu goddess oversees proceedings.

The museum makes the most of its flexible, modern exhibition space with clever lighting and hanging partitions; views through gaps mean the sections bleed into each other more than usual, emphasising the eternal nature of the story. You may be looking at an Etruscan sarcophagus, but there’s a Rubens painting in your peripheral vision. A magnificent wooden cage evokes the famous horse, insubstantial enough that it’s actually more effective if you don’t look at it directly. As with the original poem, your imagination puts the finishing touch on the story.

The half-way point offers a brief sojourn in the real Troy, architecturally separated from the rest of the show in a pod as if to emphasise the gulf between epic and reality.  The curators are keen to point out the irony that while the stories never went out of circulation, the city itself was so thoroughly lost that many people believed it to be a myth. Turkish locals never really “lost” the place, of course, but it took a German to put it back on the global map.

This section introduces us to Heinrich Schliemann, whose obsession led to the first modern archeological dig on the site. His techniques were cavalier, he bent a lot of facts to fit his theories and he effectively looted all the good stuff he found to take back to Berlin. (In a karmic turn of fate, the Soviets took the treasures for themselves at the end of WWII so they now live in Moscow's Pushkin Museum.) But he was probably in the right place. In the 150 years since his time, more scientific excavations have discovered seven different levels of habitation over 1,000 years. The latest ones reveal a substantial walled city could fit the narrative, but there’s still no conclusive proof that Paris, Hector, Achilles and the gang were here.

It doesn’t really matter, of course. The story is more culturally significant than the truth.

The second half of the exhibition returns to the narrative of Troy as inspiration for art through the ages. There are magnificent Italian Renaissance wedding chests. A maquette of the stage design for Offenbach’s La Belle Helene.

Pathos-stirring Victorian sculpture. Copies of the jewellery Schliemann unearthed and, famously, had his wife photographed wearing. Presumably, the Pushkin wouldn't lend the originals for fear that the Germans would find a way to keep them once they were in the European Union.

And even a few masterpieces. The aforementioned Rubens is fine, but Cranach’s “Judgement of Paris”, on loan from the Queen, may be the most significant work of art here.

The show ends with two interpretations of The Shield of Achilles. The first is a Regency re-imagining of what it might have looked like in the grandest of traditions, based on Homer’s description. It’s glistening silver gilt. Apollo and his four-horse chariot emerge in high relief from the centre. Detailed figures in lower relief process around the rim. It weighs nearly 40 pounds. Impractical for any hero. The contemporary interpretation is an equally dazzling though entirely different take in multi-coloured neon.

Given that this show was more about the art of storytelling than the artefacts of a place, I would have liked a bit of literary analysis on why these epics are so enduring. Surely it’s more than just the plot lines. Could we talk about Homer’s use of language? The connection to the human psyche? (I dimly remember these being major points when I studied it in high school.) But these are small things and no doubt addressed in some of the museum's related special events.

Overall, this is a great show for anyone with any interest in the tales of ancient Troy, and would be a gift from heaven for students encountering it in their curriculum at the moment. Sure, you can screen the recent BBC version or roll the Brad Pitt film (the latter makes an appearance here) but the figures on the artwork in the exhibition display more drama and human emotion than most of the acting in either of those productions. And it’s all a great deal more fun than the very worthy production of Euripides’ Trojan Women I endured at age 16, which almost put me off the whole saga for life. After the British Museum exhibition, a new translation of Homer is on my Christmas list. I think it’s time to re-read the original binge-worthy epic.

Japan defies expectations until the end

Seven weeks ago, I set down my expectations as I flew to Japan. Within days, I realised many of them were wrong. Now, after three weeks of intensive tourism and another four spent writing about it, I see that part of the essential essence of Japan seems to be defying expectations. Whenever you think you have something figured out, you stumble on a contradiction that reveals your mistake.

Obviously, a three-week visit isn't enough to truly understand any destination. But I suspect a lifetime's observation would only emphasise the enigmatic variations of the Japanese and their country.

The surprises kept coming right up to our departure. After three weeks of witnessing transport efficiency that put our home infrastructure to shame, we'd come to expect it. We'd also grown comfortable with all announcements on trains being repeated in English.

The exception would seem to be emergency situations, when the driver is explaining something live. Like why you're at a dead stop, in a part of the country hit hard by Typhoon Hagibis, while on the Narita Airport Express ... one of the places you'd most expect English ... watching the minutes until your flight departure tick away. There wasn't a Japanese native in our car, nor anyone who could understand the announcements. Nobody had seen notifications of delays when we boarded. We got moving again,  without too devastating of a delay, without anyone ever knowing what had happened. The relief was temporary, however, as we emerged into a tired terminal with outdated technology. We'd checked in online, but there was no simple bag drop. Everyone had to check in,again, the old-fashioned way, in queues eating up 40 minutes or more. There was none of the showy modern architecture or the technology we'd grown used to in the place we most expected it.

At least, we thought, we'll be able to grab some food on the way to the plane. We'd missed lunch, and my husband's tomato allergy makes airplane food tricky. (Tomato is not a recognised allergen, so you can't special order anything.) We didn't worry, however, as train stations had taught us that the Japanese are masters at delicious packaged food for travellers. Another expectation overturned. It seems that’s only in train stations. In Narita’s international terminal you either sit down, or buy sweets. (To my husband’s relief, our Iberia flight had tomato-free food.)

Looking back at those initial expectations, I got a few things right.

We did feel like Gulliver in Lilliput. While you might see a very tall or an overweight local on occasion, there’s a far greater uniformity in body type than we have at home, with most people staying trim and topping out at perhaps 5’7”. The photo I wish I could have snapped, but couldn’t get to a camera at the time, was looking across a crowded subway car in which we were the only Caucasians, to see my husband’s bald, pale head sticking above the horizon line of sleek black heads of hair at his shoulder.

I was disgusted by the ugly modernity of so many places, most notable in Tokyo. But I at least gained a greater understanding of why: disaster and war has swept away much of the old; the new is earthquake and typhoon proof. And like London, the worst of the post-war modernism is starting to be replaced with more elegant modern architecture.

I was indeed overwhelmed by temples, though I found more differentiation than I expected and have discovered a new love for Asian art. And yes, those toilets are as amazing as all the tourists before me have said. I’m researching options for having one installed at home.

I was only half-way correct on my expected highlights. Our ryokan experience, the Tokyo national museum and Kyoto were as glorious as I thought they would be. Himeji Castle, though impressive from the outside, was underwhelming because of its lack of interiors and paled in comparison to Kyoto’s Nijo Castle. My favourite sight of the whole trip, Ieyasu’s shrine at Nikko, had been an afterthought.

Ultimately, I got more of my expectations wrong than right.

I thought I’d be frustrated by the language barrier. It’s not a problem. English is the national default for anyone who doesn’t speak Japanese. Western characters appear on almost all directional signs and almost every restaurant has an English menu. All cultural sights we visited had English explanations. Sure, I would have liked more depth in places, but I’m guessing my questions would often have been too specific for locals to answer, even if we did speak the same language. (It will have to remain a mystery if there was ever any communication between the craftspeople at Nijo Castle and those at Brighton’s Royal Pavilion.)

As with any country, of course, getting a range of basic phrases down indicated our earnest appreciation of the country, even if we couldn’t communicate well.

I thought I’d be bothered by the seemingly juvenile culture of comic books and cosplay. In reality, it wasn’t nearly as visible as I thought it would be. The weirdness of London’s Hyper Japan show turned out to be a barely-noticeable sub-culture from the perspective of the main tourist routes. Outside of Disney, we really only saw it once. Our hotel, the Tokyo Hilton, hosted an “Alice in Wonderland” tea every afternoon. On Sundays it was thronged with young Japanese in full themed dress, though their Alice has a decidedly steam-punk element. Yes, this seemed weird.

As did girls in their late-20s wandering around an amusement park, arm-in-arm, dressed as their favourite Disney Princess. Upon reflection, however, I found it rather sweet. Girls in the West these days become sexualised so early. Even if they’re innocent waifs they still embrace looks that would have had them dismissed as streetwalkers in the ‘70s. It was rather nice to see young women happily embracing a sweeter, old-fashioned femininity.

I thought I’d marvel at Japanese design, particularly print. This was only true of the old stuff. Modern styles eschew elegant minimalism for the brash. Advertising and print materials throughout the country are eye-wateringly busy, cramming characters, colour, cartoon and photography into visual shouting. White space appears to be the enemy.

With three weeks at our disposal I’d planned this to be a holiday at a different, slower pace than our usual. But I woefully under-estimated the size of attractions ... temples, for example, often aren’t one building but a sprawling complex ... and the effort required to travel between points A and B. Journeys that look quick and direct often are not, exacerbated by the complicated sprawl of many stations. And we didn’t count on the steaming, energy-sapping humidity. I’d planned for laid-back R&R. I got one of the most physically challenging holidays I’ve taken in years.

Finally, as I wrote in my last story, I expected rugby to be incidental to my own experience. It was, instead, integral. The lure of future travel following the team is now strong, thanks to the delightful sense of fellowship that transforms the travel experience.

I’m quite sure about the rugby observation. I could be completely wrong about everything else.

I might have prepared with a year’s worth of reading about Japan, but this was just three weeks in an entirely new place. We can’t claim to have ever strayed off the beaten tourist tracks. That’s hardly the basis for truly understanding a country.

After my first trip to England in 1981, I came away believing everyone was scrupulously polite and well-educated, bonded to the countryside, comfortably affluent, deeply conscious of their own history and most likely to live in charming villages. I saw the tiny sub-culture that my interests and sightseeing choices led me to see.

My experience of Japan may turn out to be just as unrepresentative. One thing's for sure, however: I loved all.