Evidence that after watching Downton, Fran gets all aspirational

I am just a little teeny-weeny bit addicted to Downton Abbey and have been thinking about what it would be like to swap my life for theirs ....

I want to be a toff

I want to be a toff in Downton Abbey.

I want to taste life in the upper class.

I want to dress for dinner and eat eight course meals.  One gets so

fed up with printing vouchers off for Pizza Hut and Prezzo.

I’d wear silken knickers if in the upper class

though I’d need a mile of silk to stretch around my ... nether regions. 

I want to go to balls in golden slippers.

I want to sweep across a polished floor.

I want to wear white gloves. I want to waltz, and drink champagne

instead of watching Strictly with some hotted up chow mein.

I'd dance ‘till dawn just sweeping across that polished floor

and with Deep Heat on my knees, I’d manage it, I’m sure.

I want a chauffeur to say ‘Ma’am’ and take me

to Harrods in a newly-polished Rolls.

He’d wait outside the store and sneer at every traffic warden.

No sweaty bus rides spoiled by snotty toddlers mad with boredom.

I’d have a smooth, smooth ride, gliding in a Rolls,

clutching tightly to my bucket (I’ve been travel sick of old).

I’d love to ring a bell, like Downton Abbey,

and have a maid bring in some cakes and tea.

I want a tiered stand piled high with buttered toasted teacake

instead of eating Tesco blue stripe down to 30p cake.

I want to ring a bell for seconds - thirds - of cakes and tea

and when I get to thirty stone they’ll bring the bell to me.

I want maids, like in Downton, who would help me

put diamonds on and dress me up for dinner.

I’d say, ‘Mildred, do the buttons on my sparkling ballgown.’

No wrestling with the zip of a cheap dress until I fall down.

I’ll wow them all at dinner with my dress – its perfect fit -

then pick at bits of lettuce so my corset doesn’t split.

It all sounds so ideal, does Downton Abbey.

The chandeliers.  A candelabra.

But I think there’d be downsides to a Downton life of bliss

(I am to elegance what Botox is to Maggie Smith.)

So although I’d like the chandeliers, the candelabra,

I’ll settle for my terraced house in down-town Leamington Spa.

'If only Fran were here,' thought Rose, bored with yet another teatime conversation
about farm tenants, 'things might liven up a bit.'