Emma

I think it's time to reread some Austen. Part of the reason I survived last week was the new Emma miniseries, which I watched whenever I had a spare moment. As soon as I finished it, I had the urge to begin it all over again. (That happened with North and South as well.) Instead I grabbed the book to see if Frank Churchill was really as big an idiot in the original text and to remind myself if Jane was as (deservedly) impertinent to Mrs. Elton as they made her out to be.

But when Pete visited this weekend, he suggested (I KNOW! I can't believe my incredible good luck either...) we watch it, as we started it months ago and never got far. So we did, and it was lovely.

I never thought I'd like watching my precious miniseries with a guy, because, well, they don't shriek with joy at the gushy bits, but it's actually more fun this way. I still do get a little silly, I must admit. But unlike Frank Churchill, who decrees that, "One cannot love a reserved person," I find I do. And so did he, for that matter, that dirtbag!