Olivia, hi there. Hello. Apologies for contacting you in such a public way.
I had thought of trying via Twitter, but I don’t know where you’re @. You must be on there, being a top, top actress – the ‘Dame Judi Dench of your generation’. You’re trending, BTW, just in case you’ve had to switch your phone off. (Can’t imagine you’re the type to have a social media employee manning the tweets as you sleep through the school run).
Then I thought of emailing you. Though would you be able to spot ordinary little me, sandwiched Spam-like between heavyweight cinematic upper crusts such as Spielberg and Luhrmann, clamouring for a bit of Colman mustard now you’ve two Baftas.
Anyway, all I wanted to say was I love you. No, no, I didn’t want to say that at all. Far too soon. I mean, forward. What I meant to ask was, will you be my new BF?
There’s nothing really wrong with my old ones, it’s just that you’d be so much better (it’s perhaps a good idea if you don’t tell them I said that). I think you’d amuse me more than them. You made me laugh – a lot – in Peep Show. Then again – albeit briefly – in 2012.
But I think I first started to fall for you – no, sorry, to ADMIRE you – in the Accused, then Broadchurch, harassed working mum, honest and trusting Det Sgt Miller reminded me of every working woman I know and like.
What really did it, though, was when you slid onto Graham Norton’s sofa on Friday night, gawky and sweet as prom teens used to be in that slippy-slidy frock you knew was perilously close to dropping off one shoulder and exposing a boob to Lord Sugar. What you didn’t realise was that your bright pink bra strap was already showing at the other side.
You seemed so normal. So like us. Ditto in the similarly precarious frock you wore to the Baftas. And the way your hair looked like you’d been to the hairdressers, glanced in the mirror, recoiled and tried to brush it out. Every funny, breathy, self-effacing thing you said made me even surer we’d hit it off. Same with your Bafta speeches; I hung on every word, especially the impromptu “fudge” one.
I know you’re going to be very busy, but if you’re ever up North we could do Meadowhell after six. Cement our friendship over two-for-one mocktails (my treat( then natter while we mooch round Markses. I’m free whenever... Just say.