Star Struck

Natalie Portman is one year younger than me to the day. It's a fact I've mentioned before, but hey, it's Natalie Portman! so it's worth mentioning again. I've always kept a little place in my heart lit with a secret hope that one day, some day, I'd be able to share this nugget with her in person. I'd see her at some party somewhere, or coming out of a busy hotel, I'd walk out of a bookshop in Notting Hill and spill orange juice all down her front, something like that. Well, last night, last beautiful night, finally, we were together; in a crowded room, but together; separated by mere feet... and tables and chairs... and about eighty people blowing smoke in the air, but together; in the same room, in the same bar, slipping down beers like jelly, together. It may not sound much, but soon enough I realised I had an ace up my sleeve: I was by the only entrance. Which was also the only exit. Ah, I realised, if I but bide my time, she will have to walk past me to leave, if I but remain, little can stop me exchanging my pleasantry. And so I waited. And drank. And drank. And waited. By the time she walked past, I was on my ninth beer and fourth whisky, and it wasn't until she called back to her friend from the door that I noticed her elfin beauty swaying and swinging in a haze of fuzz by the door. 'Matalie!' I cried, 'Matalie Nortpan! Aaooie! I just pished Matalie Nortpan.'