We giggled as he stressed but we did as we were told.
He marshalled with precision, we heeded and obeyed,
there was no intermission in his grand parade.
Then others joined the line and it swelled across the path
and he nearly lost his mind when 'breast' set off a laugh.
The queue most often reached from outside the cineplex
to Oliver Plunkett Street at two to four abreast.
We wore backpacks to the 'filums' because those were the times
when it was forbidden to consume food from outside.
So, we queued, in rain or shine, loaded up with Tayto,
penny sweets, Wham and Dime and Cadet red lemonade, oh,
it was a production for sure (and that was before even
you got indoors to the sticky floors for the movie screening).
No messages about turning off your mobile phones.
Questions about dates of birth, smokers in the rows
and speakers that faithfully gave up their ghosts.
The chain barrier was manned and when unhooked
racing feet and clawing hands dashed and shoved and pushed.
A treat of treats to go to the Capitol
and you might eat in Mandy's afterwards.
In a slatted paper hat, recount the show
and take off the man in the dicky bow.
(Cork's Capitol Cineplex was the cinema of my childhood. It closed in 2005 and there are now plans to redevelop the site. I really wish I knew the name of the man in the dicky bow, he was such a character. He used to also shout "no loitering" to people who tried to wait in the cinema porch rather than in his line out on the footpath. He didn't discriminate either, he shouted at my dad to get in line just as he shouted at us children.)
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| This poem featured in the 2015 edition of Cork's Christmas magazine, Holly Bough. Find the Holly Bough on Facebook & Twitter. |
