We have watched another film.
This lockdown business is the most magnificently hedonistic time. We have never, ever, spent so much time loafing about being entertained.
Actually we have had to watch it over two nights because we did not have time for the whole thing on the first night. Mark does not usually come in from work until after seven o’clock, and so by the time we have eaten, there is not very much time for watching films before we both start nodding off on the sofa.
Nevertheless it is a splendid thing. I can hardly believe in the wonder of having almost a proper cinema, actually in my own house, at the touch of a button. I think I would like to watch some spectacular and exciting films, the sort where tidal waves crash over the Empire State building or where you are made to feel as if you are leaping across great chasms or soaring over mountaintops. I like this sort of film, although regrettably they don’t usually come with much of a story, and they do make me feel just a bit unsteady, as if I had just come off an old-fashioned sort of roller coaster, like the ones in Blackpool.
Tonight’s film was not about leaping off things. It was called Emma, and was written by Jane Austen.
Obviously she did not write the film, although I think she may have contributed the odd line here and there.
I was a bit apprehensive about watching it, because I like Jane Austen’s books, and I wanted it to be good. One of the small sadnesses in my life came when I finished reading the last of her books, and realised that I would never, ever again have the pleasure of reading a Jane Austen novel for the first time. I have read them all again, many times since, but there is something special about reading a book for the very first time.
I was especially apprehensive, because when we pressed the starting button, a little disclaiming sentence came on the screen explaining that the film was certified U, but nevertheless contained violence, bad language and drug taking.
You can look at it on Amazon for yourself if you don’t believe me.
Mark said that it promised to be a more exciting evening than he had been expecting, and poured a glass of wine.
I am very pleased to tell you that it turned out that Amazon had been making that bit up, because there were no scenes of violence and drug taking, and nobody used any bad language, sorry if that was a spoiler. Also I liked the film very much, most especially because it was so very beautiful. It is worth watching if you are considering redesigning your house, because of the lovely colours.
We are not redesigning ours, because we have only just finished, and I do not think that Mark would be at all pleased if I suggested starting again. All the same, it made me happy just to sit and gaze at it, and actually I would not have minded if there had not been a story to this film, just pictures. It is splendid to have such a marvellous window on to the world.
In other news, obviously I have been doing lots of other things as well as watching films on our beautiful new screen. Mostly they are not very interesting to write about, because they are things like taking the sheets off Lucy’s bed and sighing a little because she has gone. This was a small moment of sadness, but not really worth much space in a diary, because what happened next was feeling disgruntled with Roger Poopy, who very clearly has been illicitly occupying her bed and leaving muddy paw prints in it, followed by setting the washing machine off on a high temperature and then trying unsuccessfully to get things dry in the garden.
That was what I was doing, not Roger Poopy, obviously.
Mark sent me the picture from work. He was rurally broadbanding on a mountaintop, and suggested that we lived on one one day.
I don’t think that I would like that very much. It would be a very long walk to the Co-op.
