No, there’s nothing wrong. Well, there is. Tom, God, I hate him. I was nearly over it, but with the Le Carré and High-Rise – where he’s covered in paint? – it’s worse than ever. Do I look as if I’m going mad? Well, I am. No, I did not ever say that about Benedict Cumberbatch! Has Benedict Cumberbatch got a double first from Cambridge? Did I ever spend entire days on the Northern line just because someone saw him on it? Well then. Eddie who? The Hiddle is different. The fans are totally different. Tom says Hiddlestoners write him these great letters, not the usual fangirl ones, I love him even more, because he truly respects our suffering. I wrote him this 10-page letter about Coriolanus, so he’d know I exist. Of course he’s not just being polite, or acting.
So if I did meet him – excuse me, it could happen, I know somebody who actually saw him on the South Bank. Yes, in real life – we’d talk about Shakespearean tragedy or Archipelago or espionage, that amazing article he did in the Radio Times, I know it off by heart: “To my mind, it feels as though there are still so many secrets.” Why can’t I just be reincarnated as his keyboard? Can you believe the person who wrote that could be on the Northern line right now?
Well, just look at him: the smile (God, his smile), the frown, the body, his manners, the hair, his brain – where do I stop? If you don’t get it, great, one less person to worry about. I wish he’d become a priest; I wouldn’t mind sharing him with the holy spirit. I put that on Tumblr, though it sounded less weird when I wrote it: it was more like, damn you, Hiddle, you’re just too beautiful for this world, that’s why you’ve ruined my life, don’t feel bad, I love you. That’s not weird. I didn’t even put in that if he can’t father my children, I’d rather have my ovaries removed. Sorry, if you’re a Hiddlestoner, that’s completely normal. I have to go on the Northern line now.
