Indiana Jones and the last pair of Jimmy Choos

I'm trying very hard not to get too excited about Indiana Jones this evening (tickets procured by the Boy at short notice through what I suspect were rather nefarious means). It's harder than you'd think. It's not even that I fancy Harrison Ford (although, come on, you know you would. Yes, even now) - but I really love a good adventure.

At least, I love the idea of it. I kinda hate to admit it, but the character I've identified the most with in the whole series was not feisty Marion Ravenwood but flighty Willie in the Temple of Doom. The poor girl spends the entire film teetering around in impractical footwear, oscillating between rage and panic - and I'm pretty sure that if a dashing adventurer swept me away tomorrow the same thing would very quickly happen to me. Ye gods, I can barely imagine the state of my hair after a week without a proper shower.

Still, it's best to be prepared. I have a couple of friends who are convinced that the apocalypse will be on us any day now - and given that I saw a group of schoolgirls at the bus stop this morning wearing thigh-high socks, I'm starting to think they may be right. They've planned pretty extensively for it, right up to tagging the people they want to join them in their post-disaster survival group. The Boy du Jour has been tapped up as camp defence (he's a dab hand at shooting zombies, even if it is only in an arcade) and I was touched when they invited me to come along too. Nonetheless, I had to regretfully decline; I'm not really cut out for post-Apocalypse living and, if I'm honest, a world without Jimmy Choo is not a world for me.

Unless Indie's on board, of course.