It was a chill day at the close of October that our intrepid adventurer and his unflappable companion, Imogen, chose to delve beyond the facade of the Royal College of Surgeons and discover the secrets that lie within, come what may.
Once through the chrome and glass barriers we ascend to the lair of the quintessential mad professor, the cheery greeting of the staff jarring with the macabre sight before our eyes.
Rows upons rows upon rows of dead things, pickling in jars.
Rats, mice, hedgehogs, at first glance looking peaceful until you realise their innards are now outards.
Rising above you in the central gallery you can see a bust of Hunter – the founder of the museum, with dark shadow wings sprouting from his back, making him look every inch the Angel of Death, ominously observing his collection and visitors.
A father had brought his young son to visit, an odd choice of outing to me; but each to their own.
“The next time that child talks about this visit it’ll be on a couch to a trained professional,” quipped Imogen, voicing the unease we were both feeling watching a small child amble pass a row of human embryos in jars. We both shuddered involuntarily.
A hidden gem this place may be, but one thing is certain. It will be a long time before Imogen and I will be able to eat anything pickled…