Enthusiast
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Look, I took a pair of four-year-old children to see "The Little Mermaid" at the tail end of the 1980s. This was back when they were well-adjusted and the 21st century digital age hadn't yet had its way with their personal development. And they weren't love-starved orphans neither. Coupla normal kids, and it was a nightmare -for the first half hour at least. I'd come over-stocked with confectionery, and a surplus of indulgent affection. They're my blood, but they're not my own, so I was inclined to let their collective caprice lead me wheresoever it would take them. It didn't occur to me, back then in 1989, that by proxy commentary on unsuspecting patrons' clothing and general deportment was or could be rude. When a child implores you to assess the defiant crown of hair clinging to a balding man's head, you might be inclined to speak sotto voce or defer the entreaties for comment altogether. I didn't, and maybe it had something to do with the wall falling. So many of us were full of optimism for a shortlived period when East melted into West, and mistakenly we extended our sanguine outlook to all and sundry. Had I known then what I know now (which I didn't), I couldn't have let myself act as game commentator for my charges' whimsical queries. I would go so far as to speculate that a couple of lonely hearts may have been broken that night, as I pursued a thoughtlessly honest stream of analysis directed at the myriad filmgoers in the auditorium. Yes, the bag lady in the third row from the front was sporting a jacket fit only for a charity shop dependent on hand-me-downs from more established charity shops, but I needn't have concurred with my charges in such a crisply audible manner. I'll admit, I was indulging the kids, and even though I was the adult I strangely found myself trying to impress them. Yes I was the nominal authority figure, only I wanted to be the most liberal, cool, and fun warden they'd encountered in their brief lifespan. My act worked for the day, only to be systematically broken down in the following years. But for the duration of that "Little Mermaid" screening, I was the pauper swimmingly masquerading as the prince. This involved further concessions, such as explaining the trailers and condoning alternate bombardments of popcorn and cake directed at a hominid octogenarian wearing glasses with lenses an inch thick. Naturally, I found myself losing control of the situation as this most immersive of Disney pictures unfolded before me, as my charges had sustained their antics and comprehensively failed to conform to the occasion. But they'd never been before (their mother had promised several times but failed to fulfil, whilst their father was too busy being a trucker), and it was only belatedly that I became sensitive to the realities on the auditorium floor, in row ten or so (I recollect because I return to the same venue time and again) where we sat. Desperate measures were called for, and using a napkin I sketched out a picture of stick figures sat captivated (with zombie eyes @@@@) as a means of conveying how they were SuPPOSED to be conducting themselves. Waving this in their faces, they gave me nothing more than cursory attention and when they settled down to this day I don't know whether it was due to the marine majesty of "The Little Mermaid" or the more primitive, albeit impromptu artwork reeled off by me.
But that was the 1980s.
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