It’s Sunday night and my mother and I are on our way to the WHYY building for a member’s only premiere party to celebrate the third season of Downton Abbey.
She’s driving my dad’s car and dressed the part: a vintage hat, a velvet jacket and black velvet gloves. (I too am wearing a vintage hat but no gloves; I have yet to find a pair of vintage gloves that actually fit.)
Somewhere between the Walnut St. bridge and the Market St. exit, her hands slip on the steering wheel and she say, rather decidedly, “Velvet gloves are not meant for driving.”
Velvet gloves aren’t meant for anything, I want to say. But I settle for, “That’s why we need a chauffeur. Like Branson.”
“Or leather gloves,” she suggest. “One needs leather gloves to drive.”
Well now. Glad we’ve got that sorted out.
Frankly, I’d still prefer Branson (the hot Irish revolutionary who marries the Earl of Grantham’s youngest daughter, Sybil).
I mean just look at him:
(Something tells me that this post isn’t going to help in my quest to turn TWD into a Downton fan…)