I won’t attempt to explain why I am hooked on a television show where I cannot understand half of what they’re saying and have nothing in common with any of the characters.
Is it possible for a guy who enjoys watching “Duck Dynasty” to have spent the past eight months anxiously waiting for Sunday’s season premiere of “Downton Abbey?”
I don’t know who is to bless or blame for my family’s indoctrination into this world of British aristocracy.
But it was around this time last year when we found ourselves in the company of friends who kept talking about the show.
When people at a restaurant in Perry are gossiping about Lord Grantham -- and you realize they’re not talking about Georgia’s defensive coordinator -- you figure it’s only a matter of time before folks in Hawkinsville start an Isobel Crawley Fan Club.
We decided to see what all the fuss was about.
Delinda and I were three seasons behind, so we had some catching up to do.
I moved Season 1 into my queue on Netflix. After the first episode, we turned to each other in total astonishment.
We watched another and another, as if we were dipping our spoons into a bowl of ice cream we could not stop eating...