fangirling

Colin lust has reached a dangerous high after watching Pride And Prejudice (again) over the weekend with my mother and sister, and taking my mother to see Bridget Jones’ Diary on Tuesday.

At this point I can only think of three things that reduce me to gibbering idiocy: fantastic music, Mulder & Scully love, and gorgeous men. I must say this hints at disturbing levels of residual adolescence.

In my defence, I suppose it can be said that other things merely move me differently – intense happiness, cerebral pleasures and the sight of beauty (other than gorgeous men) render me quietly blissful. This doesn’t necessarily translate into more mature behaviour, because it’s often the sort of shining-eyed don’t-speak-either-because-you-haven’t-the-words-
or-because-you’re-scared-you’ll-wake-up-from-the-
wonderful-dream joy that five-year-olds do better than anyone else, but at least it isn’t noisy.

All right, I confess. I am sometimes girly.

After watching Shakespeare In Love on HBO the other night, and talking to my sister who’d just watched Bridget Jones’ Diary, I was filled to the brim with girlish gleeeeEEEE (I can never resist Gilbert and Sullivan references because they’re always such fun) and decided I just had to see Colin Firth in proper glory (why does he keep playing fat cuckolded loser types in Fiennes brothers movies?), so I watched Pride And Prejudice, fast-forwarding through non-Colin bits, compressing five hours into two and a half, then looking desperately through the bookshelves for Pemberley, literary abomination that it is (please stop writing Jane Austen sequels, Emma Tennant, you’re just not her), just to have new Darcy scenes to imagine Colin in…