Gone To Downton

Looks pretty, but can she speak Yiddish?

Allow me to introduce the servants

Is it wrong that I want to live in Downton Abbey?  I don't think so.  Call me selfish, but, if given a choice, I'd prefer to live in Season One, before the handsome men went off for war and the Granthams were forced to turn the mansion into an infirmary.  True, in the land of Downton Abbey, I might stand out.  I might be the only Short Jewish Gal they've ever encountered.  I'd handle it with my customary grace.  Curtsy and smile and put them in their place.  After all, I lived in England once.  For a whole year!  I can do this.  I can speak British.  Say "flannel" for washcloth and "jumper" for sweater.  Drink tea with pinky pointed.  Sit at my vanity table, admiring my own reflection, while my lady-in-waiting curls my hair.  I was born for this.  I belong in Downton Abbey.  I can be snooty.  Wear silly hats.  Boss people around.  Just ask hubby.  In recent days, I've uttered the following sentiments with a decidedly Upstairs flair:  "I'll take my sherry in the parlor."  "Fetch one of the servants, will you?" I can be Downstairs, too.  I can say, "I love you, Mr. Bates.  And I know it's not ladylike to say so, but I'm not a lady and I don't pretend to be." I can be haughty like Maggie Smith.  I can say:

This gal doesn't take sh*t from anyone.

"No one wants to kiss a girl in black."
"Last night! He looked so well. Of course it would happen to a foreigner. No Englishman would dream of dying in someone else's house." 
"I couldn't have electricity in the house, I wouldn't sleep a wink. All those vapors floating about."
Must I tell you again?  Very well.  I want to live in Downton Abbey.  Slip back in time and be an elegant Brit.  Would someone kindly point me in the right direction?  I don't want to be late for tea.