We've been watching a TV series called Marchlands. It sounded promising. A ghost story set in the same house during three different decades. The ghost is a little girl who drowned in the 60's.
It was hard to watch the agonising knotted grief of a couple who couldn't talk about the death of their daughter and who lived in a time when you were absolutely expected to put it behind you and move on.
Oh but then there's the modern day couple who are pregnant and then give birth to a healthy girl.
And it just got tougher and tougher to watch for both of us.
But you know, it was well written and quite intriguing so we tried one more.
Oh but then there's the character who's son lived for only 37 hours in the 80's.
And then I found myself crying.
Not for the loss of the son. No.
For the fact that a fictional person got to spend 37 hours with her fictional living son and I got nothing.
And if I'd had 37 hours with George wouldn't I be jealous of the next woman who had 38 hours? A week? 10 years?
Such an irrational envy.
I don't think we will be able to finish the series.