Daily Archives: March 26, 2012

My husband just reminded me I’m not British . . .


And I really DO know I am American. I don’t go swanning around using my faux posh bird accent when I pop into the Piggly Wiggly.

I still feel a true swell of pride in the old USA when I sing The Star-Spangled BannerEven after repeated trips to Mt. Rushmore, I would still feel a tear come to my eye  And I say “ya’ll” which is definitely an Americanism of the southern persuasion.

However, I was speaking earlier this evening of a television production on one of the premium channels that had been renewed for a second series.
He cast a gimlet eye at me. “Here in this country we say second season, dear.” Oops.

I suppose he expects his ladywife to start talking of car boot sales, riding on lifts, minding the gap whilst on the Tube and tossing a spanner into the works. Not to mention enjoying a cuppa, having a proper kip, or talking about how many stone I want to shed. Getting my fringe trimmed, varnishing my toenails and avoiding getting my knickers into a twist. And, OK, sometimes I use British spellings instead of American spellings. Doesn’t make me a disloyal American, now, does it?

I have mentioned to him that quite a few of my RA friends are, not surprisingly, British, not to mention the Aussies, Kiwis and Canadians. And a number of other nationalities who studied British English rather than American-style. And I try to write fanfics/fiction with English characters using British spellings and phrases because it seems the proper thing to do.

The fact is, I love my country but I also love England and have since I was a child. I eagerly read stories set in England (one called The Snowstorm by Beryl Netherclift was a particular favorite) and devoured my older sisters’ Agatha Christie mysteries, Jane Eyre, Daphne DuMaurier’s works and assorted and sundry gothic novels, many by British authors.

And then there were the imported British television and films. I started watching Masterpiece Theatre when I was nine or ten–Upstairs, Downstairs, Poldark, and many other British productions over the years. The summer before my 10th birthday, my older sister went overseas as an exchange student for six weeks. She spent four of those six weeks in England, studying at Oxford–was it Balliol or Christchurch? Sis, help me out!–and visiting various places on the weekends.

Christchurch College, Oxford. A sight familiar to my sister's eyes. Or was it Balliol?

I eagerly awaited those blue and white air mail letters and faithfully wrote back each week in those days long before emails. I loved her descriptions of the cities and towns and countryside, the food (she missed ice-cold Cokes, American hamburgers and Hershey bar chocolates) and the people. I knew that one day I wanted to visit there, too, this country I had explored in books, short stories and films.

I got that chance in 1999 with a small group of students. So much of what I saw in London, Canterbury and the surrounding countryside seemed ever so familiar to me.  Of course, these were places I had read about, heard about, seen before in photographs, films and TV; but it was more than that. I felt curiously at home there, as if I had been there before. My sister, who has been back several times, says the same thing.

We speculate that it is some sort of imprint on our genetic memory.  Our ancestors–Irish, English and Scottish–came from the United Kingdom. So perhaps it’s in our blood–or at least, our genes. And now I find myself totally gobsmacked by this brilliant Brit actor who is dead sexy and can act his cotton socks off.

My favourite actor, Richard Crispin Armitage.

Little wonder I am such a thorough Anglophile.  It’s the company I keep. And I love it!

Guy Candy, y’all! *cause I’m a southern gal*


It really IS the Beauty and the Beast, isn’t it? The Terrible and Treacherous Troll and the Hunky Hotter-Than-Hell Henchman. Lovin’ that pose, Sir Guy!

“Oh, no. The Fangurlz are about to descend on us. You might want to disappear, Bobbin, or they will trample you trying to get to me.”

Oh, Guy--you are so very gorgeous.

Sir Guy, you can rescue me and take me home any old time you want . . .

He’s come a long way, baby . . .


The idea of being considered a sex symbol may be ridiculous to Richard, but like it or not, that is what our lovely fella has morphed into–a classy, elegant, thinking-woman’s sex symbol.

We talk about “guilty pleasures” but I don’t feel guilty in finding pleasure in my adoration of Mr. A. It simply shows I have the Good Taste Gene.

And look at all that I have learned, the friendships I have made and the adventures I have taken through watching/listening to his performances. And so much, I am sure, lies ahead . . . I can hardly wait.

The Beanpole with the Big Mouth and the Hooter He Yet to Grow Into . . .

In his Cold Feet days . . . definitely morphed into the sexy hunk . But wait! It gets better . . .

He dazzles at one of his earlier red carpet appearances.

Middle-aged? Yes. And also sexier than ever!


Richard Armitage: proof that some things do get better with age. An ever more brilliant actor, going from strength to strength, a lovely human being–generous, kind and thoughtful– and one very attractive man.  It’s just marvy to have the GTG!






“He’s got eyes of the bluest skies,

as if they thought of rain,

I’d hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain~

He’s got a smile that it seems to me

reminds me of childhood memories

where everything was fresh as the bright blue sky . . .”

Sheryl Crowe’s version of the Guns n’ Roses song is now downloaded on my iTunes.

I think it will work for that “sweet child of ours” RA, don’t you?

A new video is bubblin’ in my head . . .

Out-of-control Armitage? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.


Here’s a quote I found on Caroline’s Tumblr site, recycledvinyl. I have read it before, but Richard’s quotes, like everything else about him, are worth a second, and third, and fourth–well, you know–read/look/listen.

“Do you know what I really love? I love skiing. I love the headlong rush. Because I have this love-hate relationship with control. The good moments, the best moments, are when I’m out of control.”

First of all, I am imagining Richard slipping those ski goggles into place, then setting off down the slope, his tall figure graceful as always, strong thighs flexing as he pivots and bends, a look that mixes focus with sheer exhilaration on his face, cheekbones flushed in the cold . . . it’s a sight I would love to see. Although the mother hen part of me also thinks, “Oh, do be careful, darling. Don’t break one of those beautiful legs!”

And even though I am a born klutz and would likely manage to break my neck on the bunny slopes if I attempted to ski, I can certainly see the appeal and the excitement of “danger sports,” as Richard refers to them.

And then the thought hits me. “Richard. Out of control.” Oh dear.

Now, why do I find that thought so—-arousing? Must be the Spring FeveRA hitting me again.

"I did say my ideal woman had a bit of a naughty side, didn't I?"

(screencap RANet, ski images by Google Images)

Well, there you go . . .

Blue Monday with our blue-eyed boy


Those beautiful blue eyes of his are so expressive, aren’t they? Tenderness, desire, yearning, fear, introspection, concern, anger, frustration, adoration . . . it’s all there in those bottomless blue eyes.