I’ll admit, it wasn’t quite an ambush last weekend when the Tudors sidetracked my good intentions and I can’t honestly claim I was entirely innocent. Knowing full well I should be working on my revisions, it was me who made the suggestion that my husband and I “watch an episode of ‘The Tudors.'”
Ha! As if we’ve ever watched just one episode of anything! Of course, the bloodthirsty lot took full advantage of my momentary lapse of judgment, turning one episode’s viewing into three. Coupled with the Cabernet we’d opened at dinner, it made for a totally wasted evening. I use that term advisedly. For the only time since I’ve known him–more than twenty years, but who’s counting?–my husband chose not to share. It’s usually he who feels duty-bound to kill the bottle. But that night, it was me. Normally not easily suggestible, I felt compelled to join the actors sip for sip, as they drank from their golden goblets of whatever.
Perhaps it was the sight of the lovely Henry Cavill playing Charles Brandon. Having found true love in Season Two, he proceeds to destroy it in Season Three.
Yes, ladies, I hate to disappoint you but in Season Three, he disappoints us all by choosing devotion to Henry over love for his wife.
Of course, the King retains the option of chopping off Brandon’s head, a power which Brandon’s wife can scarcely hope to rival.
I’m so glad it isn’t a true story.
Oh, right. For the most part, it is. Sigh. Where’s that bottle of Cabernet?
P.S. I just realized I’ve written eight posts for this blog and two are about alcohol. This is in no way reflects its status in my real life. I don’t have the stamina to party that hearty. <grin>
And I know Henry wasn’t a bastard, at least not literally. He just acted like one.