No, this is not a post about Farrah Fawcett’s hair.
For los readers in far-flung corners of la globe (hello, Morocco! We hope one day to partake of your bazaars and pigeon pies!), this is something of a cultural tutorial.
And it’s about how we watch movies here in the Wide Brown Land.
First up, you ensure you’re married to someone whose workplace has secured a prime seating and VIP hospitality package.
Then you collect your ticket and a complimentary Lindor ball. You try and remember to take a photo of said ball intact, but – as if by
gluttony magic – it’s gone before you can snap.
You familiarise self with ginormous screen framed by various cityscape Wordporia in the dying of the light.
You turn slightly to the right and take in cinematic view of iconic Harbour City trophy infrastructures.
You channel Ms Smuggy McSmuggerson as you breeze past los hoi polloi en route to corporate hospitality zone. At this point, you know something French, bubbly and flute-shaped has your name on it, and you begin your excitable, pre-champers breathing patterns.
Your hosts for the evening have kindly assigned you a table inside, as a precaution against temperamental skies.
You eat your bodyweight in great food, and – at the end of the savoury portion of the meal – rekindle your long lost love of chocolate mousse.
Which you are allowed to eat in your seat, as the big red screen rises from the water.
Then, the big red screen fills with images of the big red ball.
And then, the big red screen seems to know its own special route to your heart, as it fills with images of Paris.
You laugh, you cry, you squeeze Seriousimo’s Rolex-clad claw. Then it’s time to head home.
And that’s how we do movies ’round here.