Star Wars

Yesterday, against my better judgement, B was allowed to watch Star Wars (IV; as in one of the proper ones).  H is on a stag weekend (locally, but to save the soft furnishings I encouraged him to camp down with the guys. Since he peed on the high chair I prefer him to stay over somewhere on big nights out) but he’d promised B could watch it.  B’s enjoyment was marred only by my continually interrupting to ask if he was scared.  Needless to say nothing phased him; not the Sand People, not Jabba, not even creepy old Vader could give B a single heeby-jeeby.  Then, as I peeled potatoes in the kitchen, B came rushing in with eyes like dinner plates and hands flapping like a baby bird, all of a dither.  He was gabbling about a fire in a town, buildings falling down, lots of people being killed and so forth. Then he turned on his heel and ran back to the sitting room, clearly fascinated by such horror. 

I rushed through slightly alarmed and feeling rather guilty at forgetting this grisly scene of violence in the film, only to find Star Wars was on a break – as is often the case on ITV – to allow for the evening news.  Nothing in the raging battles between the Rebels and the evil Imperial rulers had caused a moment’s upset but this glimpse of real life had frightened the bejesus out of him.

He’s got a point.