Friday Night Picture Show

Typical Good Friday weather, the end of the world,

and darkness covers the land. The boy has a birthday

so haste we hence to Showcase Nantgarw,emporium

of enchantment and purveyor of pleasures and popcorn.

Thanksgiving dinner, sunshine breakfast, buttery salted

insubstantial delight, toffee poppets in breathtakingly

bigly bucket. Pop and the Chocs for we, smuggled

in deep, dark, linty pockets, capacious handbags

to make a lady Bracknell proud. ‘Three adults

for Black Panther.’ Silly moo that I am

forgot the discount card! That’s six quid wasted!

Ah, so what? Minted millionaires (not) are we.

Suck it up, move on. Tickets clipped, shuffle along

blue, purple, golden patchwork quilted carpet.

The chamber of son et lumière is inside number 9.

Blimey, mister! It’s dark in here! We feel our way

upon that gentle incline, and thence to shallow stairway

to Heaven, argue about who gets the aisle, and who

gets to sit by Number One Son, so seldom here.

I lose. Whatever. Phone on silent, cola, chocs and

hankies in position. Then ‘Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba

ba ba ba,ba ba ba ba ba ba ba baaaaaa BA!’

The ads are almost as good

as the filum. ‘For future presentation.’ I’ll give that one

a miss, and that, and that, Oh! That looks good!

A hush descends, except for munching mandibles

and we beam up, Scottie, to Moons of Magic

at the last Friday Night Picture Show

in wet and windy Wales.

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