This is rare. J and I are all dressed up. And we don’t have a wedding or a funeral to go to. This is pretty much unheard of. Sunday afternoon and we’re going out. Somehow I’ve been offered tickets to the UK premiere of Macbeth in Edinburgh. The film company must think I have some clout.

So I’ve put my one good suit on. J has looked out her velvety dress. It’s her favourite. She worries what it says about her, though. “It makes me look like I’m about to do an Irish jig,” she says. I’ve never seen her do an Irish jig. Frankly, I doubt she’s going to start now.

We drive down the M9, the Rugby World Cup on the radio, [1] sun in the sky. This September has been glorious. The motorway is quiet and even when we get to Corstorphine it’s not too busy. We might even make the film on time.

We arrive in the city centre, even find a parking space – this is so unlikely I am now thinking all the Gods must be on our side – and queue up outside the Festival Theatre alongside everyone else. It seems like half of Edinburgh is here. In kilts.

We get in early enough to be able to look down on the crowd outside and ask each other “is that Michael Fassbender?” every time someone goes out to meet the public. [2] We’re not sure though. We can’t see through the diffuser that’s on the glass.

“He’s taller than that in real life, isn’t he?” I say as someone poses for selfies. [3] “It’s called foreshortening,” J replies.

The film’s good by the way. Powerful. Brutal even. And Fassbender is fine in the role. But maybe not everyone agrees. Sometime into the second hour I notice people around me on their phones, their faces lit up by the light of their individual screens. What can be so important, J says afterwards, that you can’t turn off your phone for a couple of hours? And if it is that important maybe you shouldn’t have come, she adds.

She seems more worked up about this than I am. Then again, someone’s phone rang right behind her just as Fassbender was giving us the “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow” speech. Predictably one of the few quiet moments in the whole movie.

The film finishes. We leave the building. We’ve got tickets for the after show party around the corner at the National Museum. It’s not late. We’re dressed up. We could go and still get home before Match of the Day 2.

“Shall we,” I ask. J thinks and then says, “let’s not bother. We’ve seen the film. Let’s just go home.”

I agree happily. That’s where we are now. Given a choice between downing spirits with the stars or sitting down on the living room sofa we’ll take the sofa every time.

[1] Come on, Ireland.

[2] Turns out, eventually, it was.

[3] On what evidence I am basing this on I know not.