An American Werewolf in Dibley…
I spend my days at work in an American office that is both cold and unwelcoming. I spend my evenings in a cozy village in England, where the people are friendly and the cakes are frosted with Marmite. How do I do jump across the pond on a nightly basis? Simple, I’m addicted to the Vicar of Dibley.
From the time I was a child, I’ve loved all things British…British comedies, British writers, British royalty (Kate Middleton is sort of the best thing EVER), and I drink enough hot tea to impress Earl Grey himself.
When I write, I always have something on the television that 1.) is in the same tone or mood of my story and 2.) is a program I have seen so many times, that it can play in the background without distracting me. Lately, the complete series about the lovably loony Dibley villagers has been playing on a loop in my house. The show, if you have never heard of it, is a must-see. Even after the umpteenth viewing, I find myself loudly laughing at the antics of the characters.
I can thank the Vicar of Dibley for introducing me to Dawn French, who I have added to my list of comedy idols. I can also thank the Vicar for introducing me to Richard Armitage, who I will be adding to my list of potential Mr.’s to my Mrs. (just Google him, you will see what I mean, but remember that I called “dibs”).
So now, I return to writing the antics of my novel’s heroine, Ellie, whilst listening to the antics of Geraldine, Alice, Hugo, David, Owen, Frank, Jim, and Mrs. Cropley…all the while wishing I could book a trip to Dibley for a jump in one of their deceptively deep mud puddles.