playing "mr. darcy" in two different stories. bloody obvious.

My evenings are slowly deteriorating more and more as I slip into being the personal typist for my boss for about two hours a night now. My conscience has finally won. I can't keep putting it off. So, I'm typing about my boss riding trains and hitching rides all over Europe back in 1960. And he doesn't seem to be having much fun.

I dug out the journals I wrote during my month in London...journals I terribly hope I would've tried to keep anyway, but that ultimately fit into a class requirement for both of the classes I was taking at the time. Anyway, they're so boring even I don't want to read them. And I wrote them. The most interesting thing was when I complained about the Jane Austen Center in Bath and about how the first thing I saw when I walked in was a huge picture of Colin Firth. You know. The guy from Bridget Jones who is supposed to be (I can't think of a British way to say this...so...imagine Keira Knightley saying it) sooo dreamy, but who only has about three lines in the whole movie. If you're bored, check out the archives for the Nov. 16, 2004 entry, where I talk about how much I'm "not keen" (Eh? See how British I am? Brilliant!) on Ms. Jones.

Bloody 'ell. Posh and Becks. Buggar off!