Colin Firth, my friend needs you!

Yeah, yeah, Colin Firth probably doesn't read my blog (but he should!) But heck, I'm gonna put this out there anyway.

When my friend Phyllis and I toured England and Scotland last year, all I heard from her was "Colin Firth" this and "Colin Firth" that. Every time we saw a photo or poster or anything to do with Colin, I had to take a photo of Phyllis with Colin. Hence we have such gems as this:

And this:

Tragically, we never ran into Colin Firth the whole time we were in the UK. Like it wasn't bad enough that Phyllis missed Ian McKellen by mere days, performing Lear at the Globe or some such thing...

Yeah, that was bad, but not seeing Colin in the flesh? That was the proverbial dagger in the heart! I mean surely, SURELY we could have experienced a Colin sighting SOMEWHERE in London? Perhaps when we were having afternoon tea at the Wolseley? Maybe in the Harrods pet department (urgh, what a nightmare that place was!)

Nope. The universe was against Phyllis. The universe threw a banana peel under Phyllis' dreams. Chez Wolseley, we sipped our tea, nibbled our finger sandwiches and inhaled patisseries with not a single Colin Firth atom adorning our nasal passages. (I did catch a bloody awful cold, however.) Well, possibly Colin left behind a few flakes of glorious Firth-skin on a previous visit, or maybe there was a splash of Colin-aura on the cucumber sandwiches. A girl can dream, right Phyllis? But damn, Colin made no special appearance for my dear friend. Her hopes were squashed like dog poo under a Parisienne's high heel, and home we went to our respective countries (me Canada, Phyllis America.) You can cry a whole lotta tears on a Gatwick to O'Hare flight, ya know.

And today, months later, poor Phyllis is laid up with a nasty stomach bug:

Wait, that's not a stomach bug. That's a purple mutant potato I grew in Nova Scotia. Hang on..

Here:

Phyllis has very fancy stomach bugs!
(Yes, I made that in 2003. No, I can't explain it.)

Maybe it is some months-old London bug that has been incubating and festering and... and... growing exponentially in her gut, fertilized by her deep, acid inner sadness over being snubbed by Colin. Whatever it is, wherever it's from, it needs some DEEP HEALING.

And so I say, Mr. Firth, if you're out there, help cheer my puking friend. Help heal the wound your absence left on her gut. I mean, heart. Leave a comment on my blog and I'll make sure she sees it. Even better, send her a signed photo! Wait, I know! Visit her for tea! Just let me know how I can help. Yes, yes, we know you are happily married. We ask for nothing unholy or unsavoury, nothing sordid nor naked. Just your mere presence for the briefest of periods. We are not stalkers, we are not crazy. Well okay, PHYLLIS isn't crazy. And I'm not "knife-wielding psychopath" crazy.

Colin Firth, for this I would thank you. Phyllis would thank you. North American would thank you. You are... the best!