I’d been curious about the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice ever since reading Bridget Jones’s Diary, and not long ago a very wise and literary friend gushed praise about it (as in, “…nothing has ever been better than that.”). So when one of my sister Betsy's friends loaned her the DVD set, there was no way I was going allow it to leave Betsy's possession without seeing for myself what all the swooning was about.
On Saturday, while wrapping Christmas gifts and knitting mittens, I watched the entire thing—all five delicious hours—in a single sitting.
And then, that night, I dreamed I was having sex with Mr. Darcy.
Certainly, I have no wish to re-visit early 19th-century England, where women have no rights and no hope for a future unless they can land themselves a husband of means, and therefore spend every moment of their lives obsessing over doing exactly that, but... but...
Why don't men ride horses any more?