Carol’s Column

Romance sparkles – and dims

I love movies, but my spouse thinks cinema going is the pits. However, life is short, so when an opportunity happens, you have to grab it with both feet.

Which is why when my husband asked me if I wanted to go to the movies, I thought he was joking.

"No, I'm serious. Put your teeth in and we'll go," he said. Ag, there's life in the old horse yet.

"You mean we don't have to watch John Bishop wiggling his moustache?"

"C’mon baby, move it," he said. I knew he was deadly serious. He hasn't called me "baby" for at least 20 years.

In the car, en route to the cinema, I whinnied romantically. "Do you remember the last time you took me to the movies?"

"Yes, you were pregnant with Nicky and got stuck in the cinema seat. It took the entire Rosebank fire department to cut you free. How could I forget?"

I was momentarily silenced. "But it was romantic," I said. "Especially when we necked in the back row."

He gazed at me. "When you necked in the back row, it was with someone else. The only thing we did was hold hands and your hands used to get so sweaty that I always brought a towel along." So much for romance.

We were shown to our seats by a pimpled androgynous somebody with halitosis.

We settled into our seats, the last in the row. Mine went totally flat and I found my head in a stranger's lap while my feet shot forward.

"How can you go to sleep before the main movie?" hissed my husband yanking me upright.

"A hinge has gone," I hissed back.

"I know," he muttered. "But I'm still married to you."

"I mean the seat," I whispered.

We changed seats and it was just like the good old days. He grabbed my hand.

"Take off your gloves," he said.

"I'm not wearing gloves." I snarled.

"That's my skin after washing and cleaning for you and your four children for all these years. It's naturally corrugated like an asbestos roof." I grabbed my hand back.

"Shh, shh!" said people around us.

We shushed. Then I ate some popcorn.

"Shh, shhh," said my husband. It is impossible to eat popcorn without crunching. I was feeling tetchy. It was my time to complain.

"Will you please remove your head," I said to the man with the large circular appendage sticking out of his neck which was obliterating my view.

His head swivelled. "Whadya mean remove my head?" he bellowed.

"Who do you think you are? Peter Mokaba?"

I nudged my husband. "Do something, he's being aggressive and abusive. Punch him." Always a man of action, he immediately got up and we changed seats.

During interval, there was a line of 53 cross-legged women waiting for eight toilets.

In the foyer, my husband triumphantly brandished a glass of orange juice until somebody knocked his elbow and sent it flying.

We returned to the cinema. The lights dimmed, then brightened again. "Sorry," said a voice from somewhere. Was it God? "There's a slight delay."

"This is it," said my husband. We dashed home to tea, rusks and TV.

I mean, what could be nicer than watching John Bishop wiggle his moustache?

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