Red Carpet Moment

Yesterday morning was one of those mornings where your bed is the comfiest, cosiest place in the entire world; every last curve of your body is taking pleasure in relaxing against the mattress and pillows and the darkest blue 7am accompanied by the wind driven rain against your window is pushing you deeper and deeper into the warm cocoon of soft duvet you’ve created for yourself (writing this is actually making me want to relive that all over again). So, you can imagine that it was an easy decision to swap washing my hair and actually thinking about my outfit for an extra 15 minutes in bed. ERROR.

2pm that day…my colleague wanders over to my desk and I begrudgingly remove my earphones to hear what he is going to try to add to my workload (this isn’t unfair – this is the standard result of his little trips to my desk). This time though he actually brings good news - he has a spare ticket to the Where The Wild Things Are premiere in Leicester Square tonight AND after party and wants to know if I would like to go. Yes, yes I would like to go. I would like that very much indeed. However my morning duvet indulgence means that you could fry an egg with the grease from my hair (although it probably wouldn’t taste great) and my old, holey green dress, leggings and flats are far from red carpet compatible. Oh dear.

3pm that day…I’m drinking a coffee, reading Vogue and being given a massage by the chair I’m sat on whilst my hair is being manipulated by a man and his hairdryer. One of the many benefits of having a female boss is that in a crisis such as being invited to a premier but looking like crap, is that she will understand the need for you to take an hour to go and get a blow dry. The outfit will just have to do, in a “I’m so cool that I don’t need to try hard” kinda way (not sure I pulled that off but there was nothing I could do about the outfit so it was tough).

7pm…I’m super excited because I’m about to walk down the red carpet. Unfortunately, it was soaking wet from being pounded by the rain all day which had created puddles like potholes in a country lane so rather then strolling elegantly down the carpet, I had to navigate my way through the puddles by hoping from one foot to the other praying that I didn’t trip, skid or land incorrectly in rivet of rainwater. Not exactly what I had imagined. But the paparazzi were in sight now which quickly and easily distracted me. I’ve never been that close to a group (ravenous herd may be a more accurate description) of photographers before. I found it quite exhilarating to hear them all screaming at the young, beautiful and famous that sauntered down the carpet to try and manoeuvre them into position for the shot that was going to earn them their name in the credits of a magazine the next day. I think I may have angered the mob slightly as my position on the carpet whilst waiting to go into the cinema must have been slightly in there shot and they kept shouting at me to move and I was like “Where?, Where the hell do they want me to move? I physically can’t move forward and if I move backwards I’m going to be even more in their shot!” I could only assume that they wanted me to move INTO shot for them so I prepared my best pose and moved into the flashing bulbs…Just kidding. After deliberating over where the hell to move so that I wasn’t in their shot I just turned around so at least my face wasn’t in shot and thought they’d just have to be happy with that. They did stop shouting at me after that so I can only assume that it was the thought of my face in their shot that was offending them so much. Nice.

7:45pm…It dawns on me that the microphone has been set up at the front of the cinema since we sat down in a row 3 from the front (in itself odd – shouldn’t these seats be for important people?!) and yet no-one has come out to address the c list celeb dotted audience which more than likely means that the premiere has been split between 2 different cinemas in Leicester Square and I am in the one reserved for lesser folk. Not that I mind, I’m just happy to be there. It just explains a lot. Eventually though Spike Jones (the film’s director) comes out and introduces the film. I like him. He is understated and a little aloof but genuinely passionate about the book that inspired this film and the result which we are about to see.

9pm…The film was stunning. I had been wondering how they were going to manage to turn a classic picture book consisting of 60 sentences into a full feature film. Imagination. I loved it.

10pm…a few free cocktails, some perfectly catered canapés and a spot of celeb spotting (they must have merged the 2 audiences into one after show party venue as the list of celebs spanned from D to B at the party) later and I’m left thinking that this isn’t what I expected. It seemed that the people at the party didn’t really laugh, or eat or look like they were having fun at all. They just kind of stood in small groups, rolling their eyes when someone from the social circuit approached them who they clearly thought beneath them. I had a nice time, don’t get me wrong, and the room was dressed beautifully. It’s just that I think everybody acts all nonchalant at these things, afraid of making a wrong move and I think I’ve had more fun sitting in my front room with the girls. That sounds unbelievably ungrateful, doesn’t it? I’m not ungrateful, the whole evening was brilliant (and free), it’s just that your imagination can run away with you sometimes and the reality of a situation can be completely different, not bad just different.

No matter, all in all as I lay in bed yesterday night I thought back to my morning’s extra 15 mins in bed and laughed at how differently my day had panned out to what I had thought might happen. I had my hair done, went to a premiere and hung out with rock stars and supermodels drinking free cocktails – not bad at all.