Column: Too many books, TV shows from across the pond? No way!

The other day I had to stop myself from saying to someone, “I haven’t seen you in yonks.”

I have never heard anyone use that expression in real life. I got it off a British television series and now I can’t get it out of my head.

It appears I watch too many shows that originate on the other side of the pond.

That’s so easy to do nowadays. My husband, Paul, and I have a Netflix subscription (both streaming and DVD) and are Amazon Prime members (with a BritBox add-on, of course). I’m a librarian, so I’m well-versed in using the Minerva consortium of some 50 libraries to find and borrow interesting shows. I’m a Maine Public member, so I have access to many shows through their “Passport” benefit.

And many of public broadcasting’s dramatic series have a British pedigree.

My fascination with UK stories, however, goes way back. I remember asking my parents to buy me a paperback copy of an Agatha Christie mystery, “Halloween Party,” when I was 14. I loved it, and went on to read all her Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple books, as well as her stand-alone novels.

Shortly thereafter, I caught Monty Python’s Flying Circus on the Boston public television station. In those days (this was the 1970s) of rabbit-ear antennas, television reception was not optimal 50 miles from the source. It would be years before I saw a whole Monty Python skit on a clear screen.

I rediscovered Jane Austen and found P.D. James while I was in college. My work-study summer job in my hometown public library required me to shelve a lot of returned books. One was “Sanditon,” which Austen hadn’t finished before she died. An anonymous modern writer had completed the novel.

I’d read a Scholastic book club version of “Pride and Prejudice” in the sixth grade, but no Austen thereafter. Until that summer job in college. I checked out “Sanditon,” thoroughly enjoyed it, and started reading more Austen.

I was becoming an Anglophile. When I finally had the chance to visit England, Scotland and Wales after college, I was delighted that my tour of the British Museum coincided with an esteemed expert’s lecture on—Jane Austen. I also made sure to visit the city of Bath, which plays a significant role in “Pride and Prejudice.”

I’d never heard of P.D. James before I shelved her mystery novel, “The Black Tower.” It was not the first in the series of novels featuring Detective Chief Inspector (eventually Commander) Adam Dalgliesh, but that didn’t bother me when I was that age. I simply read it, loved it, and went on to read the previous three. I continued reading James’ books until she passed away in 2014, some of them multiple times.

I’ve seen all of the television adaptations of them as well—um, some multiple times.

Although I also read American authors, I especially liked those British mystery writers who could capture a certain coziness without being lame. Vicious crimes populated pages otherwise taken up with descriptions of cream teas, gardening contests, village fetes and darts matches at the local pub. A character’s propensity for wearing “woolly jumpers” did not preclude him or her from being the murderer.

I liked the differences in British spelling and terminology. I am outraged, in fact, when I sit down with a new British mystery and find it has been “Americanized.” That’s just plain wrong.

Of course, there is a down side. I have to stop myself from writing “judgement” and “amongst.” 

British television shows have the added advantage of great visuals. The program “Shetland” has an excellent cast and solid plots. It’s also set on those remote and wildly beautiful islands. Every time I watch it, I am ready to pack my bags. Even if it’s January.

I feel that if I ever get to Oxford, I will feel right at home. First, I read the Inspector Morse series by Colin Dexter. Then I watched the series “Morse.” (Some episodes multiple times.) Next came “Lewis,” in which Morse’s sergeant becomes an inspector himself. Now there’s “Endeavour,” which is Morse as a young police officer in the 1960s. All are set in Oxford.

Paul and I watched the original, British version of “House of Cards” before it was Americanized. I point this out as an example of my fanaticism. We have enjoyed the Netflix series.

There are more intelligent British television programs than there are American ones. I also like the fact that the actors aren’t limited to the young, slim and beautiful. I can’t remember the last time I saw a crooked tooth in any kind of American program. But I am not a reliable authority, as I watch so few of them.

Ironically, perhaps, though I love to immerse myself in British books and television, I have little interest in the royals. I watched nary a minute of Prince Harry’s and Meghan Markle’s wedding.

And my all-time top favorite mystery author is the Canadian-American Ross Macdonald, who wrote in the middle part of the 20th century. The style: hardboiled. The setting: Southern California.

In other words, far away from the quaint and picturesque villages racked by evil goings-on in the British TV series “Midsomer Murders.”

Those are the exceptions that prove my rule—“Rule, Britannia,” that is.