Ah, but if you'd asked someone who knows us, which of us would have loved La La Land and which would not, the answer would've been wrong. Because I was wrong. Yet, I had been the one who'd really wanted to see it. I confess, don't tell anyone, I wanted to see it before anyone else. I know. Makes me shallow and competitive. But I'd read the reviews, and absolutely everyone seemed... well, besotted by it.
So dear readers, I am the abnormal one. Dearest, conversely, enjoyed it and said he found it uplifting and an anti-dote to grit, grime and all that sci-fi bollocks (I'm quoting here); while I sat there wanting to love it, willing to love it, with every sinew stretching and straining saying, Please engage me. Alright, it was pleasant enough, and the young protagonists, sweet. And anyone who can learn the piano in three months and play like that is truly awe-inspiring. So well done, Mr Gosling, I salute you.
But I just wanted to come out of it, dancing in the street. Instead of which, I felt as though I'd consumed a big bag of candy floss. I plodded back to the car, whilst Dearest seemed curiously, but engagingly, light in spirits and fleet of foot.
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| Incidentally, Dearest says he prefers it when I don't dance in the street. (I don't get it.) |
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