Season 3 of The Crown premiered on Netflix yesterday, and my wife and I watched the first two episodes last night. So far I'm enjoying it every bit as much as I did the first two seasons; the casting is as fantastic as before, and I especially enjoyed the contrast Peter Morgan made in the first episode between Britain's past great-power glories and their increasing impotence in the superpower era.
That being said, watching it leaves me with no small amount of annoyance with myself. Seeing the show's take on the 1960s reminds me that I have a bookcase full of titles about the period and the individuals in the show that I STILL. HAVEN'T. READ. From Oxford History surveys to biographies of Harold Wilson and that milk-snatcher Margaret Thatcher, there is plenty for me to read for my whetted appetite, yet I just don't seem to have the time anymore.
Given that I expressed a similar complaint during the second season, this suggests that I'm still not devoting the time I want to books that interest me the most. But it also indicates just how good the show is at highlighting my reading deficiencies. I would quit you, The Crown, if only you weren't so damn entertaining.