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Even after we found our seats and the lights began to dim, I wasn't certain why I'd suggested we come here for our first date. I scarcely knew Gary, after all, and the chances of him genuinely sharing my passion for French cinema... as opposed to simply nodding enthusiastically and saying it sounded like fun... were low. What else did I know about him, anyway? He was a Clash fan, at a time when that didn't involve a degree of grave robbing, he'd only been out of school for six months, and he was so shy that I wasn't yet certain whether he even spoke English, let alone another language entirely.

But he smiled the enthusiastic smile that I'd already come to adore and, when we met outside the railroad station that evening, he had clearly done a little homework, talking with at least a degree of assurance about one of the directors whose work we were going to see, and even pre-empting my curiosity about the third film on the bill, an opus whose title I no longer recall but which was both vague enough to excite intrigue, and obscure enough to have avoided all of my film studies. For a while, I thought I'd made the right decision after all.

Now I wasn't so sure. I saw the shadow that crossed his face when he overheard a couple of other people delightedly discussing the fact that there would be no subtitles, and the dismay when he discovered the only refreshments on offer were Coca-Cola and tea, and some odd looking currant buns. But we stocked up anyway and, taking our seats in the ...

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