Mio marito's too sick to travel so we've had to cancel our plans, we're no longer off to the UK for New Years. Flights were booked, dog-sitter set, alas, but no.
This makes me terribly sad for several reasons. When I, as an American get to engage in what feels like Gosford Park, (without the murder, certo) it's like going into the past, a perfectly pleasant past when England was great and manners meant the world.
It's why people like me watch Kind Hearts and Coronets, twice, in a row. We feel comforted by that accent, that mode, that world. It's feels gentle and otherly. It offers escape into another frame of reference, slightly nostalgic and endearing. Ritual reigns with an impact that feels kind and right, if only for a short period of time.
As an outsider, its nothing short of fun but we'll have to engage in spirit only, which is fine, I suppose, if I must look at the glass as half full, which is precisely what I must do. And, truth be told, try as many times as I might, and I have; I just can't get the hang of that Ceilidh dance...
Allora, another hour has passed, time to bring mio marito another cup of tea, time to put on another old black Ealing comedy, absolutely must have Dennis Price, perhaps, School for Scoundrels...
yes, that'll do quite nicely...
