I’m a bit of an Anglophile. I think my love for British crap started when I was around 8 or 9 when I’d go over to my Grandma’s trailer on Sunday nights for a sleep over and Masterpiece Theater. It seemed like the perfect end to a weekend that started at her place on Friday nights with that hottie Hugh Downs on 20/20 (for real, I had a crush on him and about the same time--a posthumous thing for LBJ. What a weird little girl I was.)
Anyway. . .
In high school, I really didn’t get much into reading books like Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice and stuff of that ilk. I read what was assigned and filled out the rest of my reading list with Sassy and my mom’s tabloids and True Detective magazines. Then after a breakup in the late 90s, I picked up Jane Eyre and I was a goner. God, I loved that book. I decided that if I couldn’t find a way to become an early 19th century English governess, then I might as well just hang it up.
As the years wore on, I perfected an English accent that I use all the time (totally kidding), read both of the Bridget Jones books and watched the movies, drank my way through London, and had a fling with a dude from Liverpool last year. Last month I met a 24-year-old security guard from the motherland and impressed the hell out of him with my knowledge of Parliament and the fact that I took a class called “Britain Under Stuart” in college.
Those are some creds, eh?
So you can only imagine my glee when my landlord tells me he rented the apartment below me to an English couple, who are not only English but journalists as well!!!!! Now, I will have to be newsworthy like all the time, and my fertile imagination has conjured up images of me and my new neighbors sipping tea in the late afternoon and discussing the events of the day. And then of course they’ll have me over for steak and kidney pie (yuck, but I’ll eat it) and we’ll wash it down with ale! ALE I TELL YOU!
They move in today. Those poor, poor people.