So, when I was a little girl, I never wanted a prince charming on a white horse to come and take me to his kingdom as most of my friends did. Instead, I was reading Jane Austen's novels and dreaming of how I would grow up and move to England where I would meet a perfect British gentleman with beautiful blue eyes, who would take me to see Shakespeare plays and with whom I would spend afternoons drinking Earl Grey tea with milk, and having intellectual conversations.
So much for that...
In brief, I have given up on that dream a long time ago and it has become a sort of private joke. But then, lately, I have started watching some interviews with a certain British actor (brace yourselves, tons of portraits of him are probably coming...) And every single little detail about him painfully reminds me of that childish daydream. And I get lost in it again.
What you guys just witnessed is the precise reason why I am most likely going to die alone with 40 cats.