My friend Kath and I are like chalk and cheese in almost aspect of living in which it is possible to differ and yet it is with her that I laugh the loudest, let the tears flow and always tell the truth. We are each other’s plus one’s. Once united in the horror of being unexpectedly declared single Mommies, never to be torn asunder.

But sometimes she goes too far.

Today she offended every bone in my daft body by falling ASLEEP during the beautiful cinematic experience that is The Kings Speech. How is it even possible to fall asleep in a noisy cinema? Is it me? Because let it known, here and now that she isn’t the first to close her eyes, while supposedly enjoying my company in the cinema. Oh no, sit next to me in the picture house, and eyes close quicker than I can say popcorn.

While usually I am willing to let such sleepy misdemeanour’s pass with little more than a disappointed tut, today I am outraged on Colin Firth’s part, because quite frankly acting of this calibre deserves an attentive audience. An audience quietly willing him to stammer his way through each and every sentence. An audience inwardly gasping at the simply divine sets and understanding every ounce of the love reflected in Helena Bonham Carter’s wet brown eye’s as she too, wills her on screen husband to banish his demons and take center stage in a country at war. A country relying upon him.

It was wonderful. One of the finest films I’ve seen in a very long time. While Colin Firth is both understated and dignified, and Helena Bonham Carter does fabulous justice to our beloved Queen Mother, it was every scene in which Geoffrey Rush, who plays Lionel  the Kings speech therapist, that resounded with me: for his nerve, and commitment not to King and country but to helping a man who initially will not be helped. For failing to kow-tow to protocol and instead seeking the humanity behind the crown. For being willing to teach that which he believes in, even when his credentials are questioned and his expertise questioned. For believing. Yes. For believing.

But the real star of the show? Oooooooh that sofa. And that wall. An aesthetic analogy of the differences between the two men around whom the story centres and a scrumptiously delicious example of why grandeur is always best accentuated by the genuinely shabby. I swear I was swooning. So much so that I felt the urge to poke Kath and insist that she swooned with me. Which she did. And then closed her eyes. And smirked- just because she can.

And then we went to Asda. And Kath chased down a roll of porridge oats while I wandered around dwelling on royalty and history. On what has been lost in this country and what we have gained through the sheer determination of men like Bertie and Lionel. On family and what it is to stick with someone through thick and thin, no matter what their demons are. On what it is to help them face them, even when the thank you’s aren’t coming thick and fast.

I dwelled on it and then I bought some blue cheese, a packet of salami and a pink bar of milk chocolate with smarties tucked inside it.

Hey ho. Go see. Stay awake. Prepare to swoon.

Happy Saturday night Darlings.x