Notting Bloody Hill

I think the time has come for me to go into the terrorist business, and my target, all you infidels (and all you fidels too for that matter) is Hollywood. At the tender age of thing, I watched the film "The Wicked Lady", and fell in love with Margaret Lockwood, her bosom and the beauty spot on it.
Since then, I have worked my way through countless romantic movies, identified with the hero, fallen in love with the heroine and cried my way through a month of bacon sandwiches.
This evening, I watched the movie Notting Hill for the nth time and soaked two table napkins and a large red-spotted handkerchief sobbing for Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts. They are not REAL, for goodness' sake, so why do they get to me so?
At my stage of the game, romance is as likely as an Olympic gold medal for bunjy-jumping, but I still cling to the belief that one day, still, Margaret Lockwood and her beauty spot are going to walk into my life again and tell me that she is "just a girl trying to ask a boy to love her." And I will go down on my sobbing knees, belch, sneeze and fail to get up again.
Maybe it's just as well she's dead or I might make an ass of myself.