Chitra Ramaswamy: Picture this. Your correspondent is queuing up outside a cinema in London’s Kensington, about to see – yes, see – Madonna

It's not a big deal. I've only been waiting 32 years for this moment.

It has taken a certain amount of ingenuity (or, as some might call it, stalking) to get here. In my teens, when everyone else was writing to Jim'll Fix It about their love of dolphins, I was writing to Madonna about my love of ‘Open Your Heart’. It had zero effect, well apart from making Ma and Pa Ramaswamy's ears bleed and the local Woolie's double its order of fishnet tights.

Unbelievably, Madonna never wrote back. I realised I would have to think bigger. I drew a beauty spot over my lips and called my best friend my Boy Toy until he was no longer my best friend (it took a week). I learnt every dance move in the Blonde Ambition World Tour, which is no easy feat when you're playing not only Madonna, but also her manager, two backing singers and all her male dancers (‘Vogue’ was a logistical nightmare). I pretended to fancy Sean Penn. Still, my queen did not come. Eventually, I became a journalist. I didn't only do this to get within screaming distance of Madonna, understand. I was also profoundly affected by the ITV series Press Gang.

Anyway, a decade passed (the Guy Ritchie years, which we will also conveniently skip). During this time I plied my trade, ignored all mentions of Swept Away, and waited for an opportunity to present itself. Bingo! The W.E. première: Madonna's new film about, well, who cares? I started wooing (or, as some might call it, stalking) the publicist. I wrote entire e-mails in Madonna lyrics. Eventually C and I got tickets.

Back to the cinema. We decided to get here preposterously early in case we missed anything. This meant arriving at what is known in fancy circles as uncool o'clock. We end up hanging around outside for a lifetime with all the hysterical Madonna fans, ribs up against barriers and tears in our eyes. I feel quite at home.

We have also decided that under no circumstances are we going to walk up the red carpet. The world, it seems, is split into those who love the idea of strutting up a red carpet and those who would rather hoover it. C and I fall into the latter category. Our intention is to take the side entrance that smells of popcorn and plebs. Except there is no side entrance.

“Just keep your head down,” mutters C through gritted teeth. We stomp through in single file, like children crossing a road on a school trip. I feel mortified. I may as well be wearing a conical bra on my head. In seconds it's over. We're in.

Upstairs in the cinema, we watch everyone arriving on screen. They sashay up the red carpet slowly, enjoying their moment in the sun. Couples hold hands, flash smiles, meet gazes. It seems we are the only ones who resembled commuters passing through Waverley station.

The rest of the evening is a blur. We watch Madonna make her appearance on the red carpet and gasp when she enters the cinema. I feel like a teenager again: all hormones, giggles and a lack of perspective. Afterwards, we stand outside in the cold and watch everyone heading off to the after-party.

Eventually we wander back towards the tube station. My perspective is fast returning. “Are you hungry?” C nods. “Let's get a McDonald's on the way home.”