I won’t attempt to explain why I am hooked on a television show where I cannot understand half of what they’re saying and have nothing in common with any of the characters.
Is it possible for a guy who enjoys watching “Duck Dynasty” to have spent the past eight months anxiously waiting for Sunday’s season premiere of “Downton Abbey?”
I don’t know who is to bless or blame for my family’s indoctrination into this world of British aristocracy.
But it was around this time last year when we found ourselves in the company of friends who kept talking about the show.
When people at a restaurant in Perry are gossiping about Lord Grantham -- and you realize they’re not talking about Georgia’s defensive coordinator -- you figure it’s only a matter of time before folks in Hawkinsville start an Isobel Crawley Fan Club.
We decided to see what all the fuss was about.
Delinda and I were three seasons behind, so we had some catching up to do.
I moved Season 1 into my queue on Netflix. After the first episode, we turned to each other in total astonishment.
We watched another and another, as if we were dipping our spoons into a bowl of ice cream we could not stop eating.
I signed up for Hulu Plus in order to get Season 2. I set the DVR to record the shows on PBS for Season 3.
After careful planning and skilled channel maneuvering, we were up to speed in less than a month. Finally, we could stop running with our hands covering our ears every time someone innocently slipped a spoiler into the conversation.
The show is well-written, with an amazing plot. It’s a soap opera with scones and hard edges. Last season ended with such suspense I was numb.
Could Matthew Crawley possibly have survived the automobile wreck after the birth of his son?
Will Lady Edith ever find true happiness, and will Bates make it through a year without so much drama?
Can PBS promise to stop killing off characters if we send more money during their pledge drive?
One fault I find with “Downton Abbey” is that it is shown in England three months before it is aired here. So an average of 12 million viewers from across the pond have already watched each episode of Season 4. (Do we expect them to bloody well keep it a secret? No chance.)
I find it amusing that Americans went to war centuries ago to free ourselves from British rule. Now we can’t get enough of the Brits.
We are starry-eyed when it comes to royal weddings and royal babies. We have deified everyone from The Beatles to Harry Potter to Susan Boyle.
I sometimes have difficulty with British accents, despite watching all those Monty Python movies.
Thank heavens close-captioning is not restricted to the hearing-impaired.
Downtonians live in a very different world at their elegant country estate. I don’t know about you, but we don’t have butlers or lady’s maids at my house. There isn’t an entire kitchen staff living downstairs. No footman is around to help me get dressed for dinner. (I’m not sure I would want one, anyway.)
But tonight, Lady Delinda will be like royalty in her terry cloth bathrobe. Lord Gris will be in charge of the remote, with no desire to switch channels.
If anyone needs us, we will be in Yorkshire.
Reach Gris at 744-4275 or firstname.lastname@example.org.