It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a romantic nature, must be a huge Jane Austen fan.
It was a clear, brisk February morning in London. A young woman, ostensibly an adult, was looking forward to her upcoming visit to Stonehenge and Bath. She had been informed by a reliable source (the internet) that the Jane Austen Centre was located in Bath. She had also been informed (by her calendar) that there would be plenty of time between scheduled tours for a visit to said Centre.
She was pumped.
In fact, she made her excitement known to all her friends and her program director.
“Today is the day,” she said. “I can feel it. Nothing will stand in my way.”
Ah, how innocent. How naïve.
Their first stop was Stonehenge. She saw things she had read about all the way back in AP Art History. She left her gloves on the bus and regretted it. She took selfies. She listened to the audio guide because she is a good and dutiful tourist. It was beautiful.
“What a time to be alive,” she said.
She was peacefully reading a play on the bus to Bath when it happened. Her program director came to the front of the bus. “Folks,” he said, “we are on a very tight timetable today. When we get to Bath, you’ll have about an hour for lunch. Then we will meet up for our guided tours of the Roman Baths and the city. We’ll get on the bus promptly at 4. I’m very sorry, but if you wanted to go somewhere else, such as the Jane Austen museum, you will just have to come back another time.”
