|Image borrowed from Walking Primrose blog.|
I'm scrolling down now, because I saw you peeking and I do not want to be the spoiler-person for this side of the Atlantic. (As a side note: Kudos to the Brits and Canadians who watched this season of the series months ago and did not leak the news that this was about to happen. Those stiff upper lips can really keep a secret.)
Okay, let's talk.
I was verklempt. I admit it--I teared up as the Crawley family stood around Lady Sybil's bed and watched her gasping her last. Those who loved her were helpless (but still beautiful--no sleeping in yoga pants in that family) in the face of childbirth complications.
And I'm sorry about that Facebook post that may have caused some stress among the non-DA-watchers among us. (Again, what are you? Made of stone, that you can resist this delicious soapy confection?) I did not stop to think that my knee-jerk post of "Noooooooooo!" may have caused concern to you who know me in real life but perhaps don't know that on Sunday evenings I live in Downton.
Really, I do. I haven't decided if I'm part of the haughty, intrigue-ridden folks who are in charge of the abbey or whether I'm a member of the Crawley family. Sometimes I'm Daisy the kitchen maid, all huffy about how hard she works and no one ever helps her and WHY DO I HAVE TO WEAR THE SAME DRESS EVERY DAY? Sometimes I'm Mrs. Hughes, thinking "I really should put on some make-up because I could look so much better, but...no, too much trouble."
Always, though, I'm one of the three sisters. They're by turns brilliant and idiots, they fight within the walls but stand in solidarity against the outside world, they boss each other around, they ignore each other. And now one of them has died.
As a veteran of preeclampsia myself, I knew what was about to happen as soon as I heard Lady Sybil mention off-handedly "my ankles are swollen." Noooooooooo!
So now we go on, having learned our lessons. Cherish those you love. Listen to your mother. Above all, don't trust a name-dropping doctor who wears a tuxedo to dinner because he's a big fat name-dropping IDIOT who wears a tuxedo to dinner.
Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I need to wipe away a tear with my tatted-edged hankie.