the british are coming.

Sunday evening, M went out to a late movie with a friend, and as I had finally finished the fourth Game of Thrones book, I watched the last six hours of Downton Abbey, Season 2. I stumbled across DA sometime last Fall on Netflix. I think I was hooked about 15 seconds into the first episode. I love it. Like, love it. I am infatuated with the characters and the house. I am so enamored with most of the characters that I find myself thinking very mean thoughts about the actors who play Thomas and O'Brien. I'm conflicted by Maria Doyle Kennedy, who plays the wretched, and now dead, Mrs. Bates. She's so awful in this series, but she got hosed so supremely in The Tudors that I'm going to have to be neutral about her for a bit. I can say that I am emphatically not neutral about Hugh Bonneville, who I currently adore. And have I mentioned Maggie Smith? The unequaled legend that is Maggie Smith? Oh, oh, oh.

Anyway, I finished up Downton Abbey, but somewhere in the midst of it, I decided that I would've excelled at being British Aristocracy in the early 20th century. M and I have always joked about being born a part of the wrong generation.

Yesterday, without Downton Abbey to fill my hours, I sat down with the Masterpiece version of Emma. It was quite good, and I love Jonny Lee Miller and Michael Gambon so much that I almost forgot that I love the Gwyneth Paltrow version almost strictly because of Jeremy Northam.

In all this Downton Abbey and Jane Austen hullabaloo, I've just about decided that I need to live on a large estate in the British countryside. I'm sure I can afford it. Right? Jolene? Right??

Until then, I'll happily devour a Jane Austen book this evening while M works late, and I'll dream of a future of verdant hillsides and great houses with old names. I might also have tea. And a biscuit.