The call went out the other day to see a movie.
I was keen to catch the latest Bond flick.
I firmly believe that Daniel Craig is the best Bond ever. He's broody, violent and makes mistakes.
A bit like myself.
In fact, I believe Craig's portrayal lends a realism to the Bond franchise which has been sadly lacking through its 50-year history.
For example, I particularly loved how Craig's Bond died in Casino Royale during a break in a high stakes poker game. That was real man.
And such an original action film scenario.
But Bond was able to dial up M via satellite phone in the car park just before his heart stopped pumping and organise a beautiful ingenue to resuscitate him and then get him back to the card table as if nothing had happened, and then defeat his nemesis in the card game, the fist fight and ultimately the love match.
That wasn't just real, that was unreal.
Trouble is, not everyone appreciates this type of film appreciation. It's called the bloke-chick flick dichotomy. You know how it works.
He wants Terminator. She wants The Notebook. He wants Dumb and Dumber. She wants The Incredible Lightness of Being.
He wants Talladega Nights. She refuses to accept Talladega Nights is a modern Citizen Kane.
Consequently, despite being pro-choice, it rarely turns out to be mine when it comes to movies.
Hence I was surprised when she at first appeared to agree on the Bond option.
I looked for an ulterior motive. Was there some onerous task looming that may require bribing?
Had I won her over with my arguments for Craig's method acting, particularly his abs?
Had she not been listening?
Many thoughts ran through my mind as I stood there, as Marty Robbins sang in El Paso.
I had but one chance, and that was to get her to the movies before she changed her mind.
Alas, that was never going to happen.
Before I knew it she mentioned how this other movie looked interesting.
A movie that I'd never heard of.
A movie that she never heard of, I'm guessing, until she went looking for alternatives in the film guide.
A French film no less. Always a bloody French film.
Marvellous reviews, according to the review.
Well, they're hardly going to declare it's a dud.
"What do you reckon?" she asked coyly. "What do I reckon?" I thought. "I reckon you've got to be kidding."
We'd been on the edge of escapist action drama.
Now we had u-turned into a subtitled evening of angst.
As they say in the classics, "non je t'aime".
But in the interests of chivalry I inquired: "What's it about?" What followed still amuses me.
The film, I was informed, told the uplifting tale of a rich quadriplegic who hires a feisty black guy from the ghetto to nurse him through his melancholy.
Sorry if that didn't strike me as the most cliched extreme ridiculous contrast to what we'd been talking about watching, ever.
But that is indeed the plot of The Intouchables.
A true story too: both the story of the movie and how we came to see it. Wasn't too bad either, I suppose, with a few beers.
But let me just observe this, if you're ever going to get really sick, a French movie is the best place to recuperate.
Always really hot, sympathetic, determined nurses to look after you, and a great soundtrack.
What's the best way to decide what movie you watch?