Achingly hip

When a woman of my years uses "aching" and "hip" in the same sense, it is usually to describe physical discomfort. But today we went to the Whitechapel Art Gallery and the experience was unsettling. I have never seen so many achingly hip people under one roof.

Where do they get their haircuts?

Where do they get their clothes from (not from M&S and John Lewis, that's for sure)?

How did they get to Whitechapel (there was noone like them in the streets outside)?

For a start, there was almost noone under 30 - the few older people were unusual (and in that I include the elderly bald geezer in shorts - yes, shorts - and baseball boots with a copy of Fighting fit under his arm).

We saw an exhibit that consisted of balls of string.

And another that was a raised section of the gallery floor. That's all, just a raised section of floor. We spent a while admiring the stark but witty message about our perceptions of space.

In the next room was a metal staircase and we admired its simple elegance too - until the attendant told us that it was the fire escape.