Call The Midwife and a Pool of Tears.
I have been watching the BBC’s Call The Midwife. I don’t understand why it makes me cry. I’m 23 years-old, yet the episodes make me extremely emotional. I wasn’t even that fond of babies. I always considered them too snotty. Neither I thought I would grow so fond of nuns. I always pictured them as rum-makers.
I love the casting. Sister Evangelina, Sister Monica Joan, Jenny, Trixie, Chummy, Jimmy!, Sister Julienne, Cynthia… oh, everyone. Even the deaths are palatable. I had a hunch about Jimmy’s friend. That episode I cried because of the isolated woman and the way she bravely steps into the world once more.
The BBC always makes the best television. I joined Netflix because of Fawlty Towers. And in this few years in an English-Speaking country, I have devoured a disproportional amount of it. Keeping Up Appearances, Monty Python, Black Adder, A Bit of Fry and Laurie, The Vicar of Dibley, The Peep Show, The Thin Blue Line, The Office… Black Books, to mention some. Obviously, compared to other series, 394 episodes in Gintama and 1012 with One Piece, these are nutritious, dainty bites.
When I was small I saw Mr Bean, and my local TV station, Canal Cuatro, broadcasted David Attenborough’s nature documentaries. I was his fanboy. That may be the reason I’m so fond of those kind of programs. They had The Animals of Farthing Wood too, but I don’t think they were BBC’s.
I mean, where else would they have things like Embarrasing Bodies, or Graham Norton.
I need to come but to watch my nurses. I may not have mentioned other shows, but I have them all in good standards. Such good actors.