Hearing Damage

Me + my sister + cinema = fun filled weekend. It is true. Betraying every sense in brain and body, I went to see New Moon. Begrudgingly. Okay, I wasn't dragged kicking and screaming. Nor were my hands tied and eyes propped open Clockwork Orange-style, forced to watch. But this is the Twilight saga. How would I describe my feelings towards this? Meh. Yes. Meh.

Sat down in our seats, I had the aisle. I like to be able to run if required. You never know when an alien life form of jelly-like substance may creep upon the unwitting cinema goer. You know, The Blob. Keep up reader, keep up.

We arrived early. Row upon row of empty velvet seats. Silence. Bliss. But it started. A slow steady hum of boots and heels in the distance. Raucous laughter and squeals of dolphin pitch that scratched ear drums twenty miles away. Louder it grew until the oxygen dwarfed and the cinema filled. From all directions hundreds of tweenagers poured in, squeezed through the gaps, marching up steps in near-darkness. Silver streaks glistened from T. Shirts emblazoned with 'Team Edward' and 'Bite Me.' Cheeks painted with uneven scrawls of 'Team Jacob' in black eyeliner. I had never felt so old in my life.

As the trailers finished, the sounds of popcorn munched and slushies slurped faded into the roar of screams from every pre-pubescent pair of lungs. A huge sallow-looking moon appeared on the screen. Screams. A green meadow filled with purple flowers. Screams. That sickly slouchy fellow with pained yellow eyes followed. Screams. 2 minutes had passed and I was deaf. It did not bode well for the next 128. I started to pray.

Prayers unanswered. Two hours of my life lost forever, snatched by evil Father Time in cohorts with Summit entertainment. Robust hearing built to withstand the toxic levels of my iPod obliterated in mere minutes. I don't remember much about the film itself. Abstain from sex blah. Vampires sparkle in sunlight blah. There was a lot of buff men running around the woods topless, dressed only in denim shorts. But I suppose I would remember that.

For the most part I stared aghast at my sister. Laughed at the madness around us. Worried about the hyperventilating teens along our row. By the time another batch of wild hysterics faded and we turned back to the screen, we'd missed about twenty minutes.

I am now scarred for life. Tweens and teens are the new enemy, riled up on sugar and desiring a man that eats animals and, oh yes, doesn't exist. I am too frightened to venture into my local cinema. They're not just under threat from The Blob. I think next time I'll wait for the DVD. Or perhaps I won't even bother. You know. Meh.

There's no business like show business...

So. I saw my play. Yep, you read that right. My very own play. That I wrote and everything. You wouldn't think I could manage to write a whole play considering the way I'm writing at the moment. Short sentences. Incomprehension. But this I can put down to the shock of seeing my words performed before my very eyes!

It was a strange experience. I wasn't sure what to expect. It was my first play and its first production. I sat there as the lights dimmed above the audience and the song 'there's no business like show business' started playing. (You see what I did with the title of this post. I'm so clever.)

My heart flipped, an erratic beat in my chest. Blood roared in my ears. I swallowed down my stomach that had somehow found its way into my throat. My hands gripped the paper programme so tightly that the creases in my fingers turned white. I was suddenly nervous. Why? I wasn't the one acting. I was never very good at that type of thing. I'm more the drama queen and we drama queens have the tendency to over-act.

The actors appeared and a hush fell around me. People were actually there to watch my play. Then it hit me. I had written a comedy. What if no one laughed? Can you imagine it? Lines that you had struggled over, re-written, deleted and then re-re-written and no one even laughs. My palms began to sweat. I squirmed in my seat. Breath held, I watched as the actors arrived on stage and the first lines were uttered. Two more lines passed and there was silence. Oh dear. Where did it all go wrong?

I slumped into my seat, felt the shame grow like fungus around me. More lines passed. Three minutes felt like an hour and I wanted to crawl under the row of seats and disappear out the door. Then it happened. It sounded like angels singing and harps playing. No, wait, I can't in all honesty type that without laughing. It didn't sound that cheesy. It sounded like relief. And you know what relief sounds like? Laughter. That's what.

They laughed. The audience laughed. After that I relaxed. I went with the flow. I smiled and watched the actors make the parts their own, watched them faff up their lines and recover with perfect professionalism.

As the lights brightened and my family congratulated me and I heard about the good review I had received from the previous week, I felt kind of proud. And now I'm like a little proud bunny. (I thought the bunny would be appropriate considering it's Easter. Again, I'm so clever.)

I never imagined I would feel this way. As well as putting an overdue smile on my face, the play has given me a bit of a morale boost. Maybe I can do this writing thing after all. It wouldn't hurt to try would it? And you know what else? All of a sudden I'm feeling inspired.

Inspiration. I'll take that from anywhere.

I'm just not that into you. In layman's terms, this means you suck

NB: Contains Spoilers

I lost two hours of my life last night. Two whole hours I will never get back. On top of that travesty I had to spend it cooped up in a freezing cold cinema with a load of high-pitched squealing women. This is not fun. And never will be.

Have you guessed yet? I went to see He’s Just Not That Into You. I should have known, especially with a title I struggle to speak. They should have called it ‘You’re Ugly and Boring.’ Or ‘Leave Me Alone.’ It may not be as nice but it’s easier to pronounce.

He’s Just Not That Into You is a tricky little film disguised as a chick flick. Using the same format as Love Actually, it weaves a twisted web of stories all interlinked because, you know, it’s such a small world. At the core of this sorry mess are women. Women’s issues with men. Women’s insecurities over men. Women’s embarrassing behaviour because of men.

Chick flicks usually cheer me up. That’s what they’re supposed to do. They’re not made to make an impression or to win Oscars. They’re there to champion the belief that a happy ever after is possible. They should put a smile on your face. The only look on mine was one of sheer embarrassment. With all that women-bashing, I felt ashamed I was one. It made me want to strap down my breasts, cut off my hair and book myself in for a sex change.

The film’s narrator Gigi (Ginnifer Goodwin) was likeable to start. But eventually, her escapades made me cringe. Do women seriously sit by the phone, waiting for it to call? Do we stalk a guy whose date we didn’t enjoy on the off chance that he’s the one? The whole thing was so unrealistic I wanted to slap her. Or possibly the writers. I’m still undecided on that one.

Gigi’s colleague Janine (Jennifer Connelly) was so frigid and uptight, I felt no sympathy when her husband Ben (Bradley Cooper) cheated on her with Anna (Scarlett Johansson). Anna’s friend Mary (Drew Barrymore) had all the good lines, well, all three of them. That probably matched the amount of screen-time she was given too.

Ben’s best friend Neil (Ben Affleck) consistently resisted marrying his live-in girlfriend of seven years, Beth (Jennifer Anniston). This was plausible; some people don’t believe in marriage. But with a few helpful plot devices everything is solved pretty quickly. Just like that. In the past I would have been one of the women ooh-ing and ahh-ing at this point, but the whole mess was too contrived to accept. Is a happy, believable cliché too much to ask?

On that note, I'm going to utter the words I never thought I would say: they don't make 'em like they used to!

Okay it's official: I'm past it.