Last night my mother arrived back home from a trip to Utah, helping my younger-- and now college freshman-- sister Lindsay get settled.
It was about 6:30 p.m.; My dad had gone to pick her up from the airport and I was expecting them both back any minute. I was cleaning up from dinner, scrubbing a pan, while my youngest sister Megan was playing piano. I wanted them to walk in the door that second and be impressed that we were being so productive (Really, that we were doing ANYTHING besides eating Goldfish in the living room, watching Phineas and Ferb.)
But instead, the house was unusually quiet, and Megan and I were looking very much like two members of a normal family. I was feeling pretty smug. Indeed, thought I, "we are a very portrait of domestic felicity."
Um, excuse me?!? A portrait of domestic felicity??? But no lie, those were the words that ran through my mind, verbatim.
It was at that point that I knew I had done way too much summer reading that day.
Oh, Emma. 400 pages down, only 25 to go. Conquering this book now requires me not only to finish it, but to keep my head screwed on and retain my current vernacular after I am through. Thanks a lot, Jane. See what you've done? Reading four of your novels this summer has given me a deep and abiding appreciation for just watching the movie adaptations instead.
A scene from the 2009 BBC remake of Emma. Starring Romola Garai and... Frank Churchill at Box Hill. If you haven't seen this one, I recommend it.