Tate Britain

There are two types of people who visit the Tate Britain. The first type is a couple, late on in life, visiting London for the weekend to get away from the strain of life in their Hampshire manor. They have left their acres of land, their horses and have visited the Tate to look at paintings of acres of land and horses. They are a man and woman, the man has white hair, is a retired city worker, wears a knee length black coat over a suit, a uniform perhaps, with the exception of some fun in the tie department. The woman has teeth too large for her mouth, pearls and glasses that are at angle. She has probably lost any sense of smell from the strength of her perfume, and her blood red nails could take a wandering tourist out with a flash.
The second kind of person is most likely on 'vacation' from the States. They would be carrying a rucksack with millions of unnecessary pockets, and they would have a Nikon strapped around their neck. Their voices would carry for miles as they paw at a post box or black cab, or when they wonder at how the tube works.
After a morning of shuffling along in the gallery, they would end up at the gift shop.
The common gift shop, for those who have never visited a region with more than 100 people in it, is an infinite supply of tat. For the case of the Tate Britain, it is flooded with postcards and branded pencils.
The first couple would enjoy throwing money at the cashiers for something unnecessary and that would end up in a small dark corner of their mansion; perhaps a psychedelic Bridget Riley poster or a minimalist coffee table.
The second couple would appreciate the postcards or guides to London. In fact they would buy anything as long as it has 'Tate Britain' stamped on it in big red letters.
Next stop is lunch. This is odd in the Tate Britain because after a walk down a corridor, you have to chose which room you belong to; the cafe or the restaurant. The cafe is for the pauper, it is the last resort for the first couple, no they would despise sitting among the scum of London, the tramps and beggars where the only option is a disgraceful cheese sandwich glugged down with tap, yes that is right, TAP water. The restaurant, however, where you could chose between Lobster souffle or devilled kidneys is a place for the sane and well mannered.
Tate tate tate tate tate tate