Downton Abbey is my Sunday delight
GLORY hallelujah!
Downton Abbey is back and we can surrender our Sunday evenings with confidence to Lady Mary, Lady Sybil, Bates, the Earl of Grantham and the whole delectable bunch.
The First World War is raging. Maggie Smith is meddling. Bates’s horrible wife has come back to haunt him.
Upstairs are learning to drive and cook. Downstairs are being called to the front.
William the footman was given a white feather because he hasn’t yet enlisted and the old-fashioned ways are being jarred and jolted before our very eyes.
Everything is in a state of feverish flux.
So why is plunging into Downton again as comforting and reassuring as nestling beneath the plumpest feather eiderdown?
Why is plunging into Downton Abbey again as comforting and reassuring as nestling beneath the plumpest feather eiderdown?
“Did you see Downton?” asked a pal. “But of course. Didn’t you?” I replied.
We exchanged a mutual sigh of contentment.
Nothing more needed to be said.