busker

SIFF

It's that time of year again - May 20 - June 13, to be precise - when Seattle film buffs come out of their shells and I cross over from bucolic Bainbridge to join E in the queue for the Secret Film Festival.

It's an excellent arrangement: I snooze in and have a leisurely Sunday brek, catch a civilised ferry over to Seattle and an equally languid bus up to the Egyptian theatre where E has been camping since sparrow fart to ensure us a decent place in the queue.

He does it not just out of friendship but because after 4 hours in line, even he can manage to engage one or 2 females in halting conversation. If any are too attractive, I use my fluting English accent and winsome ignorance of technology to screw E's chances. Usually, he has put paid to his own chances without outside help which leaves us time to chat unencumbered by the pawing and mewling of the bovine types that frequent these showings.