"It’s okay," says my wife. "We’ll move forward when it starts, there’s plenty of room."
But people are coming in all the time and I can’t live with that level of uncertainty. So I go off to get our seats moved. We’re still on the ads so there’s plenty of time. On the way out I clock the rows further forward that have spaces - ammunition if needed. But actually I’m quietly confident; the whole thing’s shaping up like something out of a customer service training video and I’m sure I’m going to win the sympathy of the Odeon staff.
"Excuse me, my little boy has left his glasses at home and we’re at the back. Any chance of getting some seats nearer the front?"
Sure enough, the attendant jumps to it and begins prodding her touch screen, bringing up a floor plan of the cinema showing the available seats.
"I noticed Row G had space," I venture. "Could we sit there?"
"No, they’re premium seats. There are some standard ones nearer the front, but not three together…"
I wonder whether this might be a good moment to mention my child’s terminal illness, or the fact there are hidden cameras filming the whole thing to show on Watchdog next week. But I don’t have to, because something odd is happening to the attendant. She draws a deep breath and straightens to her full height. Her face becomes suddenly flushed with a strange radiance. Her eyes begin to twinkle and I notice for the first time that she is quite beautiful.
"There is something that I can do tho'…"
Yes, yes, I know there is. I feel myself drawn towards her, as though to a vortex of shimmering virtue. She turns her gaze towards me and I see her eyes are full of love, a love that she pours unconditionally over the counter towards me. Something stirs within me; a distant memory of happier times? The pure and unconditional love of a mother for its child? Or perhaps something more fundamental, a glimpse of a prelapsarian world of innocent pleasure before the serpent did beguile and all went pear shaped (or should I say, apple shaped).
"What I can do is…"
Yes, yes, I know there is. I feel myself drawn towards her, as though to a vortex of shimmering virtue. She turns her gaze towards me and I see her eyes are full of love, a love that she pours unconditionally over the counter towards me. Something stirs within me; a distant memory of happier times? The pure and unconditional love of a mother for its child? Or perhaps something more fundamental, a glimpse of a prelapsarian world of innocent pleasure before the serpent did beguile and all went pear shaped (or should I say, apple shaped).
Yes, yes… what can you do?
"I can Surprise & Delight you."
I’m temporarily struck dumb by the sheer force of her customer care as it surrounds and envelopes me.
"Using our new Surprise and Delight campaign I can upgrade you to premium seats free of charge."
"Well, well…”, I stammer. "I’m… surprised and delighted!"
She scribbles the new seat numbers on the tickets and hands them back. "Enjoy the film - I’ve seen it. It’s lovely."
Nothing I can say in the remaining time I have with her can adequately express my feelings. Not only has she solved my problem and provided exemplary levels of customer service, she’s also saved me the hassle of having to decipher my emotional state by telling me exactly how I should feel about it. And it’s true. I am, on the one hand ‘Surprised', and on the other 'Delighted'. I run at top speed back to Screen 3, waving my tickets in the air…
"Look, look…," I shout as I run in. “I’ve been Surprised and Delighted…”
“Shhhh!"
The lights are off now, so I tiptoe sheepishly back up to our row.
“Well?"
"We’ve been upgraded to premium seats. For nothing!"
It’s too dark to see their expressions, but I don't have to, knowing as I do that they will be of Surprise and Delight.
"Come on, let’s move!"
We fumble our way into position on Row G and the film begins.
It’s the one about the kid in the woods with the dragon. I’m slightly taken aback by the strange juxtaposition of the small grubby boy who hasn’t had a decent bath for six years, and the huge perfectly clean dragon who presumable has never had one at all. But then I guess the dragon’s in the uncomfortable position (for a dragon) of having to look cuddly and non-threatening, so I guess scales and forked tongues are right out. In effect it’s got to be the kid’s toy - how else would a young audience buy his devotion to it. Or believe it can take the place of the car-mangled mother in the kid’s affections.
So, I wonder, what force on earth could attract a small child away from its very own super-sized cuddly dragon that appears to provide everything it needs including transport, a bed, affectionate companionship, a passable primary-level education and, presumably, food (although they edited out the scenes of the boy combing the grizzly's blood out of his friend's fur). I for one would not give up that lifestyle for anything, even if my habitat was shrinking daily on account of the nasty men with chain saws who seem intent on turning the whole thing into some sort of environmental fable.
And he does, which turns out to be exactly the right decision because a) it’s a purpose-built dragon-sympathising family that’s got everything except a chum for the tad lonely daughter and an answer to the age-old question: do dragons exist or is Granddad a complete nutter. And b) he has no choice because he’s unconscious at the time.
And so the film skips benignly along to its big finish, where it trumps itself by revealing that not only has Pete retained visiting rights to his dragon, but there are now dozens of the bloody things who feel moved to put on an elaborate aerial display every time he shows up.
"Why are you crying dad?" whispers my child.
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| Surprised & Delighted at Surprise & Delight. |
For more on movies check out:
Whose Star Wars?
Pantone 291
@jesoverthinksit
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