In which I demonstrate that palaeontologists are cruel and unfeeling

When you are returning to South Kensington tube station from the Royal Albert Hall late in the evening, after they have closed the tunnel that promises to be a short cut, yet never, ever feels like one, you walk down the side of the Natural History Museum. Last night, I noticed that the palaeontology boffins had left the lights on in one of the back rooms – yeah, big up our planet with your all-singing, all-interactive exhibits, boffins, but at the same time, KILL IT with your profligate attitude towards energy usage.

Anyway, through the window I saw this:

There, abandoned on top of some lonely cupboards, like a broken tennis racket or an ugly, inherited suitcase, was a small diplodocus*†.

Jesus, palaeontologists, show some respect. She's 150 million years old. She lived every day in mortal fear of the Tyrannosaurus rex** so you could dick around at university for the best years of your life.

* or effigy of

† possibly

** probably not. Diplodocuses are notoriously dim, so she probably lived every day thinking, 'Woh! My tail's really long. Cool!' and also 'Mmm, delicious foliage.'