“Ian Fleming’s Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

First half: wacky and delightful.
Intermission: long enough to empty the dishwasher and make a cocktail.
Second half: a b-grade Bulgarian horror film in any other context.

Though I have revisited the breakfast-machine scene many, many times, this I believe was the first full rewatch since I first dressed up at eight years old to go see a repertory screening with my neighbour, at the Classic, which later became a porn cinema. Always enjoyed telling people I saw Chitty Chitty Bang Bang at a porn cinema. The Classic is a comedy club now.

Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

This is one of those “little life” films where you feel as if you’ve lived three lifetimes by the time you stumble blinking into the light. Wiping the tears away and reaching for the stereo to blast Concord Dawn’s ‘Morning Light”.

Feeling forever grateful for surviving whatever the fuck teenagerhood was, as ol’ mate menopause lurks at the end of the corridor, and the first text after the credits is mum needing more incontinence pants. Surprised I’m still standing, most days. Chelsie you gem. Gosh.

I could watch 73 hours of Kylie Minogue saying “Sorry, who are you?” to invasive reporters asking stupid questions.

The bittersweet romance of waiting. The aching reality of big city solitude. The damn good jams of Earth Wind & Fire.

Exorcists, assemble.