I went to see 27 Dresses at the Savoy this afternoon. I cry for every silly thing and it was only fitting that I would sob my eyes out at a romantic afternoon matinee. What a pity that there was no Kleenex handed with our tickets. The old-world cinema soaked in the lively mood of the film. A genius comedy indeed from a screenplay that dumped soppiness, honed its inspiration close to Bridget Jones and yet prided itself on inventiveness. There were no signs of the usual predictability. Rather, it's the sort of film that records splendid Kodak-memory entertainment for families. Much of the time, I laughed loudly. I could hardly stay still in my aisle seat. It's easy to take liberties when the small audience is made up of a women-who-do-lunch crowd, lone homemakers snatching a bit of peace and quiet and starry eyed couples who may range from 17 to 70. At the end, I felt girlish and weepy. I also forgot my popcorn. There was no telling that where the warm sunshine had bathed patrons as we waited for the doors to open, it had now turned dark with cloud and that the snow was falling. How I love it when the shiny pavements on Upper O'Connell Street glisten like a skating rink. On the way to Arnotts on Henry Street for tea, I dared myself to a run.