ART RAGE IN THE LOUVRE

The Louvre must be one of the most romantic art galleries in the world. It houses an astonishing collection of art. Stamina is needed to do any kind of justice to the museum's 30,000 exhibits.
It's hallowed halls throng with the weary visitors, enthusiasm long since waned after they've navigated the endless rooms full of incredible artwork. This is my fifth visit. I never get bored with it. When I get tired I like nothing better than to sit and watch the world drift by. Gaggles of jabbering, Japanese, snapping at anything that moves, the Italians waving their arms dismissively (they have much better art in the Uffizi after all!) and the laughing, irreverent Spanish. All are closely watched over by the temperamental caretakers. Although, some are nonchalant and positively disinterested in the antics of the observers. They lean together and whisper conspiratorially in corners, probably discussing last night's football on Le Tele between Lille and Toulouse.
How unlucky for the Sloth and I then, when we decided to go and admire that wonderful painting of Ingre 'The Odalisque', that we were caught out. When we arrived a large admiring crowd was gathered round a woman painting an excellent copy of the original. I decided that this would be a great opportunity to take a couple of photos and proceeded to delete old pictures on my digital camera to make a space for my new masterpiece. The sloth, not known or his patience, told me to 'get a move on', then just as I was ready with the quarry in my sights, a small ball of fury suddenly erupted from out of nowhere and began berating me in French. Alas, I had fallen foul of a caretaker. A tiny, scrawny, dark skinned girl, spitting venom and rage. Her nametag trembled on her bony chest. Her aggressive manner took me aback for a moment. My spoken French is abysmal although my comprehension is pretty good. Suddenly we were in a stand up row, face to face. I was speaking a version of Franglais, slowly in my best English teacher's voice. I tried to explain that I wasn't taking a photo of the Masterpiece only of the copyist. She let forth a vicious torrent of French and told me in no uncertain terms, that this was not permitted. 'Jamais! Jamais! Jamais!' (Never!). Just in case I didn't get it the first time. All the time she emphasised this with the strangest contortions of her face, which only succeeded in making, her look like a gargoyle on a Roman fountain!
Meanwhile, the rapt attention of the group studiously watching the copyist was suddenly transferred, en masse to our dynamic little tableau. They looked curiously from one to the other of us, trying to understand what had passed. By this time however, I had relented and put my camera back in its case and with a stamp of her foot and a toss of her curls, the little sour faced one flounced off leaving an awkward silence to fall on the now hushed group of spectators.
In the intervening moments the copyist had packed up her paintbrushes and left. The floorshow had come to an end. With a collective sigh the group moved forward in a body, muttering darkly about the Venus de Milo. The Sloth and I decided it was time for lunch and headed for the restaurant. Game over!