It’s dinnertime back home, I remember thinking as our flight made its final descent into Nice. I always get nostalgic about my Mid-Atlantic Gem whenever I land in a country that instantly sun-blinds me. I whipped out a pair of my Cannes-approved sunglasses (one of ten that I had packed for the trip) before leaving the plane. When the warm air hit my face, it was all I could do not to beam like a baited child outside of an ice-cream shop.

Perhaps it may be a bit irresponsible of me to fan the already smouldering media bonfire, but I just can’t help myself! Cannes really is what everyone says it is. It’s hot, the people are beautiful and the only way in is via the red carpet.

But first, a bit of housekeeping. Karli and I had arranged to rent an apartment during our stay — a rather lofty decision after a random thought that perhaps we ought to host a party on the Riviera.

The flat was a dream and, ever true to its aged location, there were no elevators. In any other instance staying in a walk-up that seemed to indefinitely wind me with every step would be cause for a meltdown. Rather, this somehow added character to the adventure that we were on — so we decided that it wasn’t a walk-up, but rustic and that was just fine.

With accommodation sorted, we collected our credentials and headed to our first grand screening. It seems to me that, while glamorous, Cannes is something much more cathartic — artistically speaking. In addition to the celebrities, there are films from all corners of the world, represented by talented and interesting directors, writers, producers. It’s one big electric meeting of the minds for cinematic art. And we couldn’t get enough.

All the films that everyone talked about we saw — Mad Max, Tales for Tales, Irrational Man, Lobster; all amazing. We watched the foreign titles and official selections. But — and at the risk of being shameful in my self-promotion — our most favourite titles were the ones that featured our names in the screening room of the Court Metrage. I guess, like anyone who finally sees behind the door of the place they’ve always wanted to be, I wasn’t ready to leave when the time came. I tried very hard to be melancholy on the flight back to London, but in truth I was exhilarated — ever eager to get started on our next project.

Incidentally, we never did get to throw that party on the Riviera. If I’m honest, nobody would have made it up those stairs (no matter how rustic). As Karli reminded me, we’ll just have to organise the party next year. Well, obviously.