My hairdresser can talk about other things than “going out tonight?”, and that is why I took her advice to go and see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang at the London Palladium a few years ago. I owed Daughter a trip to London, as her pesky brother had been allowed an extra trip to see His Dark Materials at the National a second time. Personally I wasn’t interested, as I’ve always found the film “not very me”.
We had good seats,near the front of circle. As is always the case, there were latecomers, and as is always the case their seats were the middle ones in the front row. I frowned at the tanned, handsome young man who stood at the bottom of the stairs politely directing the rest of his group into their row. Money, I thought. Who does he think he is?
I looked a little more carefully, and could answer my own question. Cliff Richard. Oops, not so young, then, but with every right to think he’s a somebody. Hang on, somebodies often come out in groups. I wonder who else is here? Looked to my right, finding Cilla Black stepping elegantly towards Cliff.
Well, I suppose people like them go to shows, too, sometimes. And whenever I think back to that night, I think Cliff Richard, not Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. And I’m not even a fan. I don’t mind him, but I don’t worship him. I was reminded of all this as I set Wallander to record for tonight, and got a few minutes of Cliff on Songs of Praise.
Having waffled this far, I have to admit that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was very good. I shall continue to listen to my hairdresser.