In the hands of the gods

I've been offered tickets to the premiere, boyfiend told me excitedly. I'm getting ready. You could come down and wave at me from the crowd. Hum, yes, my enthusiasm was astounding.
I have my own opening to go to, thanks anyway, I say, only slightly huffily. Yes its only a work thing, in Peckham, after hours, far from home. But still I'm a more central part of that opening than I would be standing with the celeb-stalking desperados behind barricades in Leicester Square, waving at my own boyfriend. Nose, cut, spite, self. Or something...