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.