Watching Downton Abbey on Sunday I was reminded that nothing ruins a story as much as the intrusion of the real world outside its confines. We all know there's a puppet master outside the narrative, but woe betide the artiste that allows us to notice the strings being pulled. It kills involvement at a stroke. There's a Margaret Attwood novel, Alias Grace, where the author dangles two alternative versions of a story in front of us for - what seemed to me like - the last third of the book. "For Heaven's sake", I wanted to shout at the author, "Make your flippin' mind up!"
At a rather less exalted level than the grumpy Canadian, on Downters the fragrant Jessica Brown Findlay, alias Lady Sybil, was misdiagnosed in pregnancy by snooty consultant Tim Pigott-Smith. Piggot-Smith is no more appealing now than when he was a pervy flogger in Jewel in the Crown all those years ago, and I wonder whether his life has been ruined by association with the horrible characters he has to play.
Anyway, while Brown Findlay was croaking quite movingly of child-birth complications, behind it all lay another complication - she has had offers of work in LA. I found it impossible to put this out of my mind. Nothing confirms Downters descent into a posh soap than the realisation that Lady Sybil was being written out of the story. Moreover, it wasn't even Julian Fellowes pulling the strings, but Brown Findlay's agent.
RIP Downters. RIP Lady Sybil. Not dead, just gone to Hollywood.
