The Oscars are easily the worst evening of your professional career. It's always the same, each and every year. Watching celebrities parade themselves up and down the red carpet, flaunting whichever overpriced dress they have decided to endorse that evening, whilst sycophantic reporters gush over every syllable that pours from their mouths. And the articles that are written follow that same line of thinking as well. Top ten celebrities who wore too tight and dress and flaunted their nipples, or which celebrities said some meaningless tripe that we're going to read into far too deeply and infer that they have decided to run for presidency. It's all dull.

You do your best to smile and snap photographs as your are told, not paying attention, but doing your job despite despising it in almost every capacity. At least you get to look at scantily clad celebrities. As demure as they all appear, they're dresses all have on explicit purpose. Draw attention. And that is achieved with short hems and steep cleavage. There could be worse things to stare at. However, becoming a glorified photographer was not what you had in mind for your evening. In fact, as you lazily snap photos, you let your eyes glance across the growing crowds, wondering if you might just be able to spot something worthwhile reporting. A pipe-dream perhaps, yet you do it nonetheless.

As foolhardy an endeavour as you thought it to be, you're surprised by what actually manages to catch your eye. The large building is split up into several areas: the press area, full of tents and camera crews; the actual red-carpet leading into the auditorium, full of celebrities and cooing fans; and a back-street that runs around the outside of the building.

You spot someone in a black hoodie and sweatpants pushing through the press-area, her head bowed. As she reached the back-street, she was quickly ushered inside the building by security. At the end of the red carpet, you spot an attendant holding a black bag, accepting identical black cylinders from select celebrities as they pass inside, all of them female by your assessment. Not only that, but you spy an opportunity to grasp a more intimate view of the whole event. The pass around your neck is for outside only, yet you see a man fervently talking on his phone, his pass hanging loosely from his back-pocket. Finally, your eyes meet those of none other than Natalie Portman, the woman staring at you intently; far too intently for it to be a haphazard meeting of your eyes. Before you can consider your options, your phone buzzes in your back-pocket.