Someone’s got amnesia. Now it’s official. Downton Abbey is a bonafide soap opera, and I’m hooked!
I’ve never liked soaps. It’s always “later the same day” and the plot painfully trudges along with no resolution, ever. (I had a roommate in college who pledged allegiance to Days of Our Lives…15 years later, I’m confident the same love triangle angst that existed on the show then has yet to be resolved.) And then the plots are just plain whacky, what with all the mistaken identities, evil twins, amnesia. Please…
But when portrayed with British accents and set 100 years in the past, I can’t seem to get enough! And don’t we just love Maggie Smith? I find myself giddy with anticipation each Sunday night, waiting for Monday morning to come so I can watch the replay on PBS.org. I thought I was watching something dignified. After all, it has the word “classic” in the title: Masterpiece Classic. Alastair Cooke in a velvet arm chair? It has to be worth watching!
But when that soldier, maimed with burns from the war, hobbled up the steps of the stately manor and claimed amnesia, it hit me: it’s a stinking soap. I’m hooked on a soap! I half expected “Stephano” to come lurking around the corner twisting his mustache, pondering his nefarious scheme.
These characters aren’t real. The show is of no consequence to me and my life. So why can’t I rest until I know once and for all if Mary and Matthew will ever get married?!
And for the record, I think this Patrick with amnesia character is a fraud. I’m calling it. Who’s with me?