This is a line. For the tickets. Not a food line. Not an aid distribution line. Now do you mind getting off my back and parking your feet on the floor? And not peering over my shoulder to check which seats I am choosing would really be appreciated.
Its the national anthem, for chrissakes, can we see some spine in that asparagus you call a back. And can you refrain from sipping your Pepsi till it is through. I wish a gas bubble goes up your nose.
Yes, you’ve paid good money for the seat you’re in, but I can get some part of the arm rest too. Or would you rather take the chair home with you.
You, yes, you, with the very very very urgent conversation on machinery and orders to be delivered, and general pandemonium, do you mind taking your discussion to a part of the film called The Interval and The End.
My dear little kiddos. Yup young lust is truly wonderful and oblivious to all, but do notice that a four year old is staring at you gawp mouthed and cut out the groping.
Fellow hassled mother. Yes, my child and your child are striking up an acquaintance on the stairs between the aisles. Let them be. We’re not contagious. Unless you are.
Ye of the wildly ear piercing ringtone that you mercifully shushed into silence everytime it peeped up at an interval of ten minutes. Have ye heard of the simple expedient process of putting your phone on silent mode?
And whoever it was in the seat behind me chomping on popcorn like a supersonic fighter jet know that your teeth will erode through the ill wishes of every unfortunate soul who has had the misfortune to have you eating in hearing distance.
Mr Anonymous Cougher. My sincere best wishes for a speedy recovery and many bottles of Bricarex or Benadryl. Perhaps twould have been best had you downed the entire bottle before stepping into the theatre.
Ye who trod on my toes with needless enjoyment, may your stilletoes break off as you step on the escalator on your way down.
Miss Caustic Commentator, if I want a review, I will read the newspapers. (Not that we have any informed reviewing these days, with the bad puns getting even worse by the day and the language deteriorating into obvious camp) Would you mind zipping it till I can make up my mind as to whether I like it or not.
And whistles and clapping. Ye folk of such enthusiasm. I half expected to see ye flinging coins and notes at the screen.
Bad Gas attack man: Thank the darkness. Thank the darkness. Or would have personally bound you to a chair set in a grazing pasture of overfed cows.
And yes, that is my child. I take full responsibility for his actions. I will even apologise if he causes you discomfort. But now by pouting and turning around constantly with a face sourer than a tub of yoghurt gone bad will make me want to pour my Pepsi down your neck. Ice cubes and all. And blame it on the child.
The gaggle of girls giggling everytime the gangly hero came on screen. You were adorable. Until one of you screamed ‘Nice butt’ at the hapless, decently covered newbie hero.
Finally, for the strange man who leaned forward till he was breathing hot and heavy ominously on my head, my husband is twice your height and weight. And has been known to beat people with fidgety fingers to bloody pulp. You were damn lucky he was engrossed in the movie. Or the deviated septum would have been on me.