Some people have enormous televisions coupled with quintillion-speaker "surround sound" systems, with which they can watch the latest Hollywood blockbusters immediately they are out on DVD (if not sooner). We are not those people. Thus, our intention last night, having booked a babysitter, was to go to an actual cinema and watch an actual movie ("Wall-E", thank you for asking, although why two adults would be leaving the children behind to go to see a "children's" movie is a question perhaps best not asked).
Our plans were thwarted on account of the ten-year-old, at the end of the first unequivocally great school day he has had in several weeks, if not months, somehow managed to trip over his own feet and knock considerable chunks off both of his front teeth. A length of time at the dentist's, and concomitant delay and frustration, put paid to our night out.
So, instead, we rented John Waters' "Hairspray" (the one with Divine, not the one with John Travolta) and, after the kids had retired for the night and we were sufficiently over the nerve-jangling trauma of the late afternoon (there is no traumatic like parental traumatic), we threw a few beanbag chairs on the floor in front of the telly, augmented those with some couch cushions, and hit "play". It was our own private cinema. We called it "Vinyl Class". For a brief time it became "Crap Class", but "Vinyl Class", it seemed to us, was a better fit, and was, we felt, more "Stan and Adrienne".
