I called Thush the other day to ask if she wanted to go see “A Bout de souffle” at the Curzon.

“I don’t want to see it if it’s going to make me depressed,” she said.

“I don’t think it’ll make you depressed.”

“Who’s Godard?”

“This French director, nouvelle vague-y, his films are love stories to Paris—”

“And why was Ben Kingsley waiting for him?”

“What?”

“Why was Ben Kingsley waiting for him?”

“I don’t—”

“A few years ago I went to see Ben Kingsley in ‘Waiting for Godard’ at the Old Vic, and—this was at the end of a long day of running around and everything—and I fell asleep in the front row, I was so tired.”