I love it though, Louise Brealey is 38 but Molly Hooper is put down as an old, pathetic nag. Meanwhile, Martin Freeman looks like my grandma’s purse and Benedict Cumberbatch’s neck continues to morph into the luscious haunch of a hairless cat.
If you’re in this fandom, and you think the women are too old for the men, then I can only hope someone loves you past the age of 35. You know, past your ‘fuckable’ state, apparently.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” Felicity breathed as she ran out of the bathroom, her very dry towel covering her still very unshowered body. She’d barely rolled out of bed a few minutes ago, popping her head up out of her pillow fortress only to see she’d slept in.
She’d stayed up all night trying to finish up fixing one of her client’s computers, and she definitely looked it - hair bedraggled, makeup smudged, possible drool covering one cheek. She glanced at the clock and saw she still had about fifteen minutes before the boys were due to pick her up.
“If this is…”
Felicity snatched her phone up and saw Oliver’s smiling face staring back at her. She huffed, rolling her eyes so hard it hurt. And instead of calling like a normal person, he was insisting on FaceTime, again. The jerk always wanted to do FaceTime - always.
“I like to be prepared for what I’m gonna get before you open the door.”
She’d smacked him upside the head for that remark. She’d done that a lot over the last ten years - Oliver getting smacked in the back of the head, and John getting her ‘can you believe this idiot’ looks, ones he always reciprocated.
Felicity closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before answering.
“What?” she asked, not bothering to hide her annoyance or the fact that she was totally naked and had just rolled out of bed.