Carol’s Column

Groovy movie

LIFE is short, so when an opportunity happens, you've got to grab it with both feet and hang on tight.

Of course — you don't always recognise an opportunity for what it is.

Take the other night when the father of my children asked me to a movie. I giggled and thought ag there's life in the old horse yet.

When I came downstairs in my salmon-pink summer-weight candlewick dressing gown clutching a packet of creamsoda suckers, he was appalled.

He shuddered from the tip of his serrated hair to the toes of his built-up shoes.

"You look like David Bowie in drag. I can't take you to flick in that outfit," he said.

I was stunned. "You mean, we're going out? You mean you don't want to have tea and rusks, Cliff Saunders, the 1928 film and the epilogue?"

He nodded and wiggled his newly-trimmed eyebrows.

"C'mon baby, shake it! Tonight we're going to razzle. We're painting the town red, I'm taking you to a real movie — an opening night."

Quick as a flash, I leapt upstairs and changed into my little black backless with the revealing rear.

I pinned the red chiffon toilet-paper holder from my mother-in-law to my left cleavage somewhere above the heart and sallied forth in all my glory.

"Hon — you look sensational," said my man, leering through his gold square-frame prescription lens spectacles.

"Except for that red thing at your waist."

I sighed and removed the red chiffon toilet-paper holder from my cleavage. You can't win them all.

In the car, I whinnied romantically.

"Do you remember the last time you took me to a movie?" I asked him, nestling my head on the adjustable head-rest.

"Yes," he nodded. "You were pregnant and got stuck in the cinema seat. We needed the entire fire department to cut you free. How could I forget?"

We found a parking place near the cinema.

While walking the eight blocks, an airconditioner extractor blasted my drip-dry coiffure from off my head and down the street where it came to rest upon a municipal dustbin. I left my left heel in a crack in the pavement.

"Don't worry," said my dazzling prince. "A limp makes you look interesting."

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The foyer of the cinema glittered. The first night manure set bared their molars and sipped champagne.

We were shown to our seats by a pimpled youth with halitosis and a misplaced Adam's apple.

"We made it," said my husband with a sigh of great relief, taking out the opera glasses. "We're just in time for the ads."

We settled into our seats. Mine went totally flat and I found my head lying in a stranger's lap while my feet shot forward and became entangled with a plaid jacket and padded shoulders.

"How can you go to sleep before the picture's started?" hissed my husband, yanking me upright.

"A hinge has gone," I muttered.

"Don't I know it," he answered loudly.

"I mean the seat." We changed seats and it was just like the good old days.

He grabbed my hand. "Take off your gloves," he whispered in my ear.

"I'm not wearing gloves — that's my skin," I snarled, withdrawing my corrugated hand.

"Shhh," spat the lady on his left.

We shushed. Then ...

"Will you please remove your head," I asked the man with the large bald head eating a peanut crunch in time to the theme song, who was obliterating my view. "I can't see."

His head swivelled: "Whadya mean remove my head?" he bellowed, "Whodya think you are? Marilyn Monroe on toast?"

I nudged my husband who immediately opened his eyes. "Punch him, he's being abusive."

Always a man of action, he immediately got up and changed seats.

We made ourselves comfortable and the lights came on for interval which I spent cross-legged in the loo in a long line of cross-legged women holding their breaths.

In the foyer my husband was fighting with the fittest. His jacket was split, shirt ripped but in his hand he triumphantly clutched a cup of orange juice.

Someone dropped an icecream down my rear cleavage.

Bells donged and we returned to our seats. The gentleman directly behind had hiccups while his partner chewed chips.

Beside me, my husband grunted and snored in spurts.

The lights dimmed — I nudged him awake: "The main movie's starting."

Then suddenly there was light and a little grey man appeared on the stage.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, due to unfortunate circumstances beyond our control, we are unable to show the film."

We dashed home to tea, rusks and tele.

I mean, what could be nicer than Cliff Saunders on a Saturday night?

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