Love Bites: On Solo Cinema Trips

You go here. I'll go over there. A couple of months ago, walking home beneath torrid weather after a torrid day, I indulged myself. I wandered, soaking, into the cinema and bought myself a beer, something called a Brooklyn hotdog and a ticket for Joker. I can't remember the plot but I can remember that hotdog. Mystery sauces criss-crossed mystery meat. Two memory foam buns and a scatter of crispy onion bits. And I remember how much better I felt, better than at any point that week, when the lights came up.

Solo cinema trips are a habit I've been trying to export. We went to see Withnail & I, my friend and I, set up opposing camps in the grand screen of the Cameo with pints and packets of Maltesers. There were no seats next to each other and so I made a proposal: we can watch this together, apart. They went over there, and I went over here. I'm not sure they were convinced, so I'd like to make the case now.

You can immerse yourself in a film, even if it doesn't deserve it. You can drink in the dark, in the quiet, in the warmth. And you can get hotdog sauce and crispy onion bits down your front and nobody will be able to judge you. And you'll feel better than you have done all week.