OH, TO be where Spitfires and Messiahs hang, where one may enjoy a frugal meal or watch druids gather mistletoe.

I speak of Glasgow's Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, which has been voted one of the top 10 museums in Britainshire. It came eighth in a poll by travel website Tripadvisor, one behind Edinburgh's National Museum of Scotland.

I love them both, but particularly enjoy the situation of the Kelvingrove, by the River Kelvin, on the edge of a park which has a bandstand, bowling green and fountain, three phenomena which reek of relaxed civilisation.

For those from peripheral parts who've never visited, the Spitfire is real and hangs from the beams, while the Messiah is Jesus of that ilk, who also hangs, but from a cross in the painting by Dali.

Dally by the Dali, by all means, but dine out too on The Frugal Meal, by Jozef Israel, which depicts a subdued family in a sombre kitchen. Or have a pagan peek at Henry and Hornel's collaboration, The Druids: Bringing in the Mistletoe. Ignore the fact that the ancient Celtic priests look like Aztecs or Hawaiians. The Messrs H were merely indulging their artistic imaginations.

If your imagination is stimulated more by the museum side of things, you can go and see Nakht, or at least his coffin and skeleton, what with him being deid, like. Hieroglyphs are your first clue that we're talking ancient Egypt here. But, if deid Glaswegian animals are more your thing, there's always Sir Roger. As you might imagine, he was an elephant. He used to live in the zoo, but he doesnae noo.

In the flat screen, virtual age of the internet, there's so much real, three-dimensional stimuli here for the eyelobe. Times change, and museums with them, but we'll always prefer the past to be physically present, right here in front of us.

Right next to the old Royal Scottish Museum in south central Edinburgh is the new Museum of Scotland, both constituting the National Museum of Scotland (the capital's museums have a history of making a right malarkey of their names). Designed in the concrete car park school of cultural architecture, it encapsulates unintentionally the tragedy of progress.

The stately, magisterial old building was a palace of wonders to me when a boy. I believe it inspired my love of knowledge, ken? Memories include a primary school trip behind the scenes, seeing the Apollo spacecraft that went to yonder Moon, and being chucked out for sliding along the shiny floors on our butts.

In my teens, while pretending to my parents that I was still going to a job I'd long ago packed in, I used to sit in the museum and eat my packed lunch behind the backsides of some stuffed ruminants. Quiet spot, d'you see? A place where one might ponder why parents were never existentialists like their offspring.

In my twenties, I attended an Egyptology lecture at the museum, and the audience really did include people in panama hats and linen jackets. I felt like I was in a thrilling mystery movie. The thrill of sliding along the floor on one's butt still appeals, but I don't feel I have the trousers now for such an endeavour. Cloth at the buttockular region of breeks just doesn't have the same thickness these days.

Speaking of thick, on coming to man's estate I opted for a career in the dazzling and popular world of journalism. For a hinterland, though, I meditated often on the joys of more somnolent occupations, none more so surely than museum attendant.

Once, I saw one of these professionals asleep, standing upright. Of all the fantastic exhibits, this was the one I found most inspiring. Its run only came to an end when I - ever the public-spirited citizen - reported him to the appropriate authorities.

I thought I'd get a badge or something. The museums of Glasgow and Edinburgh have been awarded recognition by the good citizens of Tripadvisor, reminding me I'm due a visit. As Edinburgh's is hard to park beside, I'll probably plump once more for the Kelvingrove, perhaps eating my sandwiches by Sir Roger's posterior as I pretend to be at work.