When the autumn mists descend and the trees turn from leafy green to russet brown, some people defrost the Gilmore Girls: I defrost Gimli son of Glóin (and the lads). The world needs saving again and I know just the nine capable sets of hands – well, eight if you discount a fool of a Took – to get it done.
I have a friend who is loth to watch The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring because she feels bad about setting those noble hobbits off on their journey to Mordor again, knowing the peril and horrors that lie ahead of them. Not me. I love to send them off on their quest two, maybe three times a year, and I rarely let them finish it: not because I yearn for the suffering of tiny little guys, but because I put my own comfort above them. With all due respect to mists and mellow fruitfulness, Fellowship is autumn to me: as cosy and comforting as snuggling into a blanket with a hot chocolate.
