Sprawled on the bed like a complacent cat, I soak up the elusive winter sun, one that shows up after a week long snow and icy rain. The humdrum buzz of a late Sunday afternoon drones around. I like how the sun rays peep from the window blinds and create a pleasing pattern of light and shade. And thus I continue with my recent bout of Austen comfort; both the books and the movies as well. A bit of Austenite, I am.
"I'm half agony, half hope", sighs Captain Wentworth from the heart-tugging pages of Persuasion. No particular reason for the choice but the autumnal Jane Austen just suits best to my current brooding, wintry mood. So I scour the murky lanes of my mind and lose myself in the grandeur of Austen's Bath.
I tread carefully in my fine muslin gown, for it is muddy at this time of the year; what if the dainty lace gets all slushy and ruined. Oh and the dear, dear paisleys! How they cheer me while a gush of wind threatens to sweep away my bonnet. I pass through a thronging crowd of red coats; I try to spot that familiar, agreeable face. Just then a carriage drives past me in the most uproarious of hurries. Naturally, what follows is an utter embarrassment of confusion and a rampant exchange of hands and fabrics. Oh, but I did carry the parasol in a very lady-like manner.
I wander along the Georgian wonder of the Royal Crescent, dash in and out of the enticing lace and muslin stores, sip tea in the Pump room. Ah, the quintessential Englishness!
