For reasons which are neither sinister nor interesting, I was once responsible for several (No, it doesn't mean seven. Is it more than a couple? Yes. Is it more than a few? Probably. So seven then? NO!) children.
There were in fact seven of them. All under seven years of age. All wanting to eat popcorn, drink lemonade and watch a film. All wanting to sit on my knee.
Once the knee-sitting rota had been established and the kitchen timer set, we decided on My Dog Skip. A Wholesome Family Film.
By the time the children were handed back to their owners, their (the children's, not the owners') faces were swollen with tears, most were incapable of speech but occasionally emitted a deep, shuddering sob, and I was covered in translucent skeins of snot. Admittedly there was also a certain dampness about my own demeanour.
I wouldn't like to spoil the film for you by giving away too much of the plot. Suffice to say that My Dog Skip was not blessed with the gift of eternal life although in such trying (and crying) circumstances, ninety minutes can feel like an eternity.