Behind the Scenes at the Museum

"You've moved everything around!" This will be today's cri de coeur from everyone who walks through the door (who's been here before, obviously) as I have boldly, nay, recklessly, indeed moved everything around. Well, not just me given that the everything included two large shelving units and a particularly clunky sofa made of wood and malice, so there was some help yesterday. Today however, I have single-handedly put everything back on the shelves and am now dusty, red-of-face-and-crumpled-of-clothing, taking a much needed sit down. The coffee in my hand is even more ambrosia like than usual.

All of this (mild) chaos and confusion is so that I can have a proper desk with a proper chair and therefore cossett my ageing and cantankerous back. (Further cossetting methods include monthly massages, a bed that feels like I'm sleeping on a cloud and ten minutes of stretching every day. Getting old is time consuming).

"Oh! Things have been moved!" M enters with a variation on the rapidly ageing tune and without her dog. We chat for a little while about doggy ailments - including the time my Alsation-cross clawed open the fridge to eat all the contents and then spent 48 hours being sick before trying to eat a dead rabbit. I blame his labrador genes.

Today, I am mostly focused on a grant application which is all-consuming for me, but absolutely no fun to write about, or for anyone to read. More funders are beginning to understand that you can't expect a museum to deliver a good project if they are having to cut back on staff/electricity, but a lot of my time is spent trying to juggle costs around projects that don't have full cost recovery. It's surprising just how expensive even paper is these days.

I am interrupted by a couple who stagger in as if they have just crossed the Alps, clutching at each other and making "woooo" noises at such a volume, I am genuinely concerned they have just seen a ghost.

"Welcome! Are you alright?"

"Oh yes," the woman is still patting herself back into shape whilst the man adjusts his cagoule. "It's just taken us so long to find you. You are really hidden!"

"Oh, did the map on the website not work?"

"There's a map on the website?"

I resist poking this particular conversational bear and tell them I'm happy they've finally made it and this is everything they can expect to see. I have worked in museums that have been established since man first walked the earth and people have still burst forth through the doors to shout extravagantly, "it took sooooo long to find you!" And then grinning at me as if expecting applause and a small certificate of achievement. I have even seen people walk past the door, only to return and actually come through it several hours later. "You're so hard to find!"

As I am also prone to the same kind of premises-blindness, there is no criticism from me. I have walked past theatres, banks and, memorably once, a railway station, finally falling into their doors to the sound of absolutely no celebratory trumpets. We are all just that dog from Up, shouting "squirrel" in our heads.

Anyway, once they have settled their hair and clothing, recovered their breath and informed loved ones they are safe, they wander upstairs to look at some soothing Finnish art before the return trek.

Several of the volunteers clatter down for coffee and biscuits. Noah is in today, so I have limited the number in the tin, all of which are in the style malted milk, digestives or custard creams. I have been accused of meanness where it comes to the selection but that's because they haven't seen our biscuit bill. Also, I would like to put in a word for the humble digestive: there is nothing finer with butter and cheese on it, with a crisp apple. Or Nutella, if that's the way your fancy takes you. Each to each, to quote Nancy Mitford.

The petty cash takes a small beating as I sort out change for people's bus fares and parking tickets. This is something of a point of pride for us, that our volunteers aren't out of pocket for doing us a favour, which they all are. It's something I think every organisation with volunteers should do (National Trust, I'm looking at you).

This done and biscuit stash duly demolished, coffee drained, my lot clatter back upstairs for a last burst of archiving action and I return to my application.

Two hours later and my right eyelid is twitching with the stress of it. This has the unfortunate effect of making it look as though I am winking at our next visitor, who takes an alarmed and considerable step backwards. I am forced to place one finger over the eyelid to control it. So now I look like a lunatic. Marvellous.

Finally, the building clears and I go outside to bring in the A-board, taking a few moments to linger in the sunshine. Birds are singing, the carpentry company are sawing and the musical notes of a car hitting the speed bumps too fast filter through the air. Ah, the ambient music of the countryside.

Inside all is calm as I carry out the final tasks of the day: checking the temperature and humidity, washing up, sweeping, packing up the washing to take home and deal with overnight, emptying the bin. Yes, I know: truly, the glamour threatens to overwhelm.

Cups of tea/coffee consumed: 6. Times stood next to the radiator: 2 (Spring is icumen in!). Cold noses: 1. Grant applications completed: 0.68.