OPINION The first time I realised this could be a problem – and by problem, I mean an actual health concern rather than a stupid story to tell friends in the pub – was the third time I watched When Harry Met Sally . Or more accurately, the third time I attempted to watch When Harry Met Sally . I had a new boyfriend who was baffled that I’d never seen what he considers to be ‘the classics’– films like Goodfellas and Pulp Fiction – and so I agreed to watch his classics on the proviso that he watched mine (mainly sad films about gorillas).
Anyway, When Harry Met Sally was at the top of his list and off we went to watch it, only the first time we tried, I fell asleep before the opening credits finished, and the second time I made it to the scene where Meg Ryan orders an apple pie then – bam. Unconscious again. For the third attempt, I pre-loaded on two cans of Diet Coke, then turned down the thermostat and threw off the blanket; I couldn’t risk being cosy.
“Why don’t you relax?” he said. I shook my head, too embarrassed to own up to what was going on. Halfway through I felt a familiar sensation – warm, sluggish limbs, heavy head and eyelids.
But I dug my nails into my palms and pushed on. This time I made it. My boyfriend was delighted I’d enjoyed the film.
I was delighted I’d reached the end credits. Then he said, “Let’s watch Goodfellas next,” and I shouted, “No!” He looked confused so I covered it up by rambling about how I wanted to sav.
