suddenly I must gip and squee.

I've been revealing to people, bit by bit, that Jack Davenport is my new object of ardor. He's like one of those guys you don't notice at first, don't look closely at--you glance once, appraise, and glance away, because he's not blatantly pretty--but then you start to hear all your friends gush about him and you give him another, squinty look, and another and another, then you realize one day that he has, like, this incredibly, wonderfully, utterly British voice coming up from somewhere in the back of the throat--nasal* but charming, and culminating in words that roll off the tongue like tart hard candies--a voice that can make anything sound arch or crisp or keen or mocking, and then your head goes sproing with cogs and springs and things exploding as you recognize how incredibly dishy he is.

He keeps saying all kinds of brilliantly sarcastic things in my head that I want to transcribe, but then it's a moment later and they're gone.

Sigh.

My thoughts are all frothy. I must find more Sparrow/Norrington. I must watch eps of Coupling again tonight. Or maybe Ultraviolet. Hmmmmmm.

* It occurs to me that the nose isn't actually located in the back of the throat, but I don't care--his voice carries the same contradiction.