Thursday, 23 February 2012
Yesterday was my turn to lounge recumbent on the sofa, "sick as a terrible dog" in the words of my daughter. A gastro bug with my name on it came to call Tuesday night. This seemed like bad timing as Fanf and I had planned to go out last night on our alternative Valentine's to see The Artist.
But, putting on my RTBC cap, this was good timing. I had already planned to ship the minibeasts off to the grandspoilers, which freed up the sofa and allowed me to recuperate by finally watching the beautiful BBC adaptation of Patrick Hamilton's wonderful trilogy Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (thank you Katie).
By 6pm I still didn't feel all that great but decided that I would be mad to miss the chance to see The Artist on the big screen en amoureux with the fella. Plus, Jean Dujardin has been among the serried ranks of my lust objects for several years now.
You know when you've been looking forward to something too much and it's been so overhyped that, when it comes, it's a gross disappointment? Thankfully, The Artist wasn't like this. I could contribute my rave review to all the others currently circling the globe but I think I'll merely add, since I've brought up the subject of lust objects, that Bérénice Bejo stole my heart every bit as much as Jean Dujardin. Though Uggie the dog is the one I'd take home.
Afterwards Fanf and I went for a drink. He told me I still looked as young and beautiful as the day we met. I should say that Fanf has poor eyesight and that this declaration came when we were well on our way through the solitary glass of beer that suffices to get either of us feeling squiffy nowadays. But still, that's nice. What need I Jean, or Bérénice, or even Uggie, when I have my Fanf?