Quite Right

Is it weird that I’ve been thinking a lot about British people?

It must be the accent. I mean, seriously. I dare any woman within earshot to deny the power of a British accent. I’m not one to swoon (though I saw Michael Buble in concert a few years back and I came VERY CLOSE to swooning), but what is up with the accent effect?

Take Colin Firth, for example. You know him, right? The original Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice (pause for a moment of respect, please), the affable and sweetly awkward guy in Love Actually, the stuttering king in The King’s Speech…I have a friend, Murl, who absolutely goes weak in the knees if I say the words “Colin. Firth.” Down she goes, all fluttery and breathless.

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Here’s a man who is not particularly gorgeous. In fact, if you saw him on the street (and he wasn’t wearing an ascot), you might think “Accountant.” Or “Botanist.” Or “Was that man wearing Rockports?” Certainly not “Oscar-winning actor who makes women faint when he speaks.”

But I do get all mushy and nostalgic and sigh-y when I watch Colin and any number of his cohorts. Masterpiece Classic on PBS kills me. I mean it. I just finished watching the whole of Downton Abbey and now I’ll probably have to move to England. (Do they have possums there?) It doesn’t seem to bother me that I know English people in 2011 no longer hang out all day in Jane Austen-ish clothes and worry about marrying beneath their class if only for the sake of love.

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I’ve been to England, in fact, and I remember a lot of disappointing food and a healthy amount of rainfall. But I still will need to relocate because even fish and chips taste good if Colin Firth is sharing them with you.

Marc is presently rolling his Norwegian eyes. He’s awfully lovely too, I must point out. And if he started speaking in a British accent, I’d be more worried than smitten. (Anyone remember when Madonna tried that for awhile? EXACTLY.) Of course, if I started retiring to the parlor and curtseying, he might be a bit concerned as well.

All right, so what’s your guilty pleasure? If not people in enormous, drafty houses, wearing petticoats and fretting about balls, what, then? Amish romances? Happy Days reruns? Funyuns? Hit me, people. I’m ready. I shan’t judge.