It may have had something to do with the stale, re-circulated air and the out-of-body state that long haul flights induce even after a few hours. Just knowing that you'll be sitting in the same tight spot for longer than a work day or a night's sleep slows you down and a haze hits (the free drinks on international flights do not hurt). In this state, I became consumed by Broadchurch, watching the final six episodes straight through on my way back from Dubai to NYC, in part because I became obsessed with the vicar played by Arthur Darvill, someone I never gave one thought to as Rory on Doctor Who. He makes an extremely attractive vicar, though; sullen, prominent nose, dirty blonde. (Now that I think about it, I do see a connection here appearance-wise to Ted Chaough, another favorite. If I start feeling down I can look at both of them for a sense of reassurance. There are faces like this in the world.)
I don't know exactly what a vicar is and I'm not going to look it up because I'd like to keep it that way. Clearly, they are a British creation because I hear of them nowhere else. There was also a vaguely sexy vicar in Case Histories.
I've come to the part of Middlemarch where a vicar has been introduced. I couldn't even tell you his name, maybe something that starts with a B because I've come to the part of life, ok maybe just the point in this year, where I might have to admit that I'm no longer capable of reading serious books. After months, I'm only on page 170 of 850 and can't read more than ten pages in a sitting and then have zero recollection of what I just read. There was a window when it was possible, time and concentration-wise, and now it's gone. I'm actively dumber than I once was, and clearly dumber than all the young, smart women who not only read and love Middlemarch, but discuss the smart, young woman memoir about Middlemarch.
Women in their ninth decade also like Middlemarch, I discovered in New York last week.