January 25th, 2009



British. So Very British.
     So I'm switching through channels, and I run into Masterpiece on Channel Eleven. It's playing the latest adaptation of Wuthering Heights.  I stay to watch, because Burn Gorman's in it, as one of Heathcliff's victims, and also because there's very little left to watch, perhaps three quarters of an hour. Any more than that and I might start pulling my own fingernails out for relief.
     My First Born comes in and looks at the screen, and comments that I was watching "The 13 millionth, three-hundred thousandth remake of something that makes me want to slit my wrists." Whereupon he sat down and watched the end with me.
     Sometime between when Kathy's husband doesn't forgive his sister for marrying Heathcliff, and when Heathcliff blows his brains out (wait, was that a spoiler?) he looked at me again - tearing his eyes from yet another scene done in rain, and wind, and dark, and grey - and said, "Everyone in Britain between 1832 and 1865 hated each other in books, didn't they?"
     I, in my sweater and slippers, blowing on my fingers because the house is massively, uncomfortably, chilly, told him no. Of course not.
     "They were just cold."