Saturday, February 9, 2013


I am totally hooked on Downton. Totally hooked and so late to the party that someone's already pregnant and the one person I know here is throwing up in a flower bed. I'm also not really sure why I'm at the party. I saw the invite when it first arrived, I thought it looked a bit twee and full of people I'd want to roll my eyes at. Now I've put my frock on and got here, I see I was right and I want to leave and go home to my party that Tina Fey is throwing except that I can't because I need to find out if Julian Fellowes is going to try and eat 10 litres of ice cream like he's threatening.

The problem is, that since this whole "falling in love" problem I have had to spend a lot more time by myself than usual. Sound ridiculous? Well, yes, you'd think. But two comedians trying to date is as awkward as trying to lick your elbow with positive magnets on your tongue and funny bone. It's not very comfortable and you suspect you look like a bit of a mess for trying.

What with a lot of my free evenings shifting into battles of will power not to go and hug a radiator and sing Celine Dion into my slippers, I have had to take up television as a replacement for housemates. What better housemates could one ask for than these excellent husky women with pearls in abundance and hair like chocolate? I never thought I'd be learning about feminism from pre-WW1 aristocrats. Go figure.

I hate being alone. I have never been very good at it - my sisters used to have to remove the shoes from the hall if they were going out for long enough that I'd notice. It seems teeth marks in leather are less of a symbol of affection than I'd hoped. Well, they might be symbols of affection in some circles but certainly not between West Country sisters it turned out.

I cannot deal with silence and have been nurturing a healthy addiction to Radio 2 since I was 15 to try and deal with the problem. I don't know what it is that I find so hard about being alone - I am obviously very cool and fun, you'd think I'd be great fun to be with. It'd be all like:

"Hey Laura, let's get drunk and sing loudly."

"Yeah, cool! I'll wave this bright fabric round my head and blow a whistle."

"Good plan, we're so cool. Let's make a pact never to have a Downton binge and then cry because we're not as husky as the chocolate haired ladies of leisure."

"YEAH! We're too cool to be a bit turned on by the idea of two footmen rubbing each others hairless torsos."


And then we'd high five together (me and me) and probably drink some tequila to sure the deal. It'd be excellent and worthy of a montage.

It's not like that though. Weirdly. Go figure. It's more like:

"Shut up, we're watching Downton."

"Ok, but would you like a sticky bun?"

"Yes, but we must remember to wipe down the remote this evening in case the volume button gets stuck again."

So, I end up watching Downton Abbey and inflicting my musings on the subject on innocent people on the inteweb. Not that I think the old Abbey residents mind - they seem oh so terribly top notch I think I'd fit right in. I may start practising so that when my time comes I know how to fit in. If anyone knows of an impotent chauffeur at least 3 classes below below me and hopefully related, let me know as we really ought to be dating by now.

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