Sunday nights just aren’t the same. There’s just a big, gaping hole in my TV-watching heart without William and Mary, Lord Grantham, and the dowager countess et. al. to curl up with after supper. And I am a wreck about poor–and surely innocent!–Mr. Bates languishing in a wretched jail, excuse me gaol, even as I write.
As we like to do on Sunday nights, last night we had the Preacher and Partner to dinner. Partner and I share an affinity for the public television series Downton Abbey. When he presented me with this button, honey it could have come from Harry Winston himself. I shall wear it with dignity befitting the noble Mr. Bates until Downton Abbey resumes in January.
As for His Grace, despite the fact that his title correlates with that of a duke, he has watched exactly 12 minutes of one episode, and that was the World War I battle scene, which he thought was “pretty good.” Otherwise he would rather go to the dentist.