Dear Diary, I went to the cinema for the first time in years

I hate the cinema

One day last month, Terry, Max and I went to visit my parents, where we had a short conversation about how long it’s been since any of us went to the cinema, and how that’s because we all kind of hate going to the cinema.

Naturally, the very next day, we went to the cinema.

THIS IS NOT THE CINEMA WE WENT TO

Reasons I Hate Going to the Cinema:

1. There are Other People there.

2. A lot of them are noisy.

3. And use their phones during the movie. During. The. Movie.

4. It’s always freezing. Why am I paying to sit shivering in the dark with Other People? Why, though?

5. Popcorn on seats. And down the back of seats. And under your feet. Just a giant, cold, dark room, filled with other people’s half-eaten popcorn, basically.

6. Too many trailers for stuff I’m not interested in.

7. Too many adverts for things I will immediately want to buy.

8. If you need to pee in the middle of it, they don’t pause it for you.

9. Why so loud, though?

10. THE RUSTLING. The constant, constant rustling.

11. It costs more than an actual day out/mini break/that jumper I want.

12. When you really think about it, it’s actually kind of weird, all these people just sitting together in the dark, rustling sweet packets in unison. Isn’t that weird? Or is it just me? Wait: am I the one who’s weird? On second thoughts, don’t answer that…

Back in my previous life as a local news reporter, I used to occasionally cover for my colleague, who did movie reviews — as in, he literally got to leave work at lunchtime every Friday to go to the cinema and watch a movie so he could ‘review’ it — and that was the only time I really liked going to the cinema, because a lot of the time it would be totally empty, and I’d get to sit in the middle of the theatre on my own (or occasionally with Terry, who was at uni at the time and would skip lectures to come with me) like a billionaire having her own private screening of everything. That was ace, seriously.

It’s not been like that since then, though. In fact, for the first few years of our relationship, Terry and I went through a phase where we’d go to the cinema a lot (Because there was nothing else to do in our town), and every single time — literally every single time — I’d get someone thrown out for talking non-stop during the movie. I became notorious for it. I really hate the ‘Karen’ meme, but it would not be incorrect to say that I was basically the ‘Karen’ of our local movie theatre, constantly storming out and demanding to speak to the manager. They hated me. That’s why I don’t have friends, now.

Anyway.

“We should take Max to the cinema,” said Terry enthusiastically. “I mean, he’s six years old, and he’s never been to the cinema before. That’s terrible!”

“He’s never been to the cinema before because he’s always refused to go, not because we haven’t offered to take him,” I pointed out. “He says he doesn’t think he could stop talking for long enough to watch an entire movie. And I don’t think he could either, to be honest.”

“I want to go to the cinema,” said Max, who’d been listening in. “I still don’t think I can stop talking, though. Can we go anyway?”

“Sure,” said Terry, who hadn’t slept the night before on account of being at the tail end of the cold from hell, and was blatantly just looking for an excuse to sit in the dark for a couple of hours. “Let’s go!”

So we went to see Migration. It’s a film about ducks. Before it came on, we sat through thirty minutes of adverts and trailers, then a short animated movie from the makers of Minions.

“For the love of God, no!” I muttered under my breath, when the notice came up on the screen advising us to please enjoy this additional feature. “No additional features! We’ve been here for almost 40 minutes now, and the movie hasn’t even started!”

“And you’ve already eaten all the sweets,” said Max, who was struggling to stay awake, but pretending he wasn’t. “We’re going to starve to death now.”

But we did not starve to death. In fact, we survived the movie (Which was as good as an animated film about ducks can be, I guess) with only one trip to the toilet, and minimal talking, which felt like a not inconsiderable victory considering that Max is normally only quiet for that long when he’s asleep — and sometimes not even then.

So it was better than I expected, all things considered. OK, the popcorn cost £7 for a tub (Seven! Pounds!) and it was so cold I had to keep my coat on the entire time, but even though it was a kids’ movie, no one used their phone or talked loudly through it, so I was pleasantly surprised.

“Did you hear the rustling, though?” whispered Terry (because we were obviously having to fake enthusiasm for the cinema, so as not to spoil it for Max, who is still young and not nearly as jaded as we are) as we walked to Five Guys afterwards for a £35 burger. “So. Much. Rustling.”

“Not really,” I admitted. “The sound from the movie was too loud for me to hear anything. It hurt my ears, actually. Why do they need to make it so loud?”

Then we went home and watched Friends on the couch, at a reasonable volume, and with easy access to the fridge. I didn’t have to pick someone else’s popcorn off my seat before I could sit down (Well, not much, anyway…), and it only cost … whatever it is that Netflix costs these days. It was my kind of night, basically. Despite this, we will, of course, be going back to the cinema at the first possible opportunity, because Max enjoyed it (or said he did), and he’s already started to shun our company in favour of his friends, so we’re going to have to try to keep him sweet for as long as possible.

But then we’ll come home and watch Netflix on the couch. And that’s absolutely fine by me.

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