You can’t contain the history you are which is a series spiller, more akin to House than Cumberbatch, who’s an uptight, trench coat, duffel coat buttoner.
And it’s the thick wall partitioning in the flat share which keeps me watching, and it’s not that I want you to fuck exactly because I understand the aftermath of craved unions; I’ve lived a timeline ready to scoop hipbone like uncooked potato.
If you’re renewed, keep cancellation bayed, and the critics lay off as they’ve not watched – I wouldn’t preach something I didn’t experience first, so I could comprehend the wrongs and rights of it – I’ll expect an awkward episode in season 4 and I’ll make my mind up then.
Lucy’s not degraded, is instead the controlling, force and reason of James Wilson, the purpose and narrow and utter empowerment, unliveable without. No second best, now.
You strike a balance between suburbs and city and you keep women happy because you were brought up to even though you were raised in a whore house or because of that.
You can’t believe out of every man it’s him that kisses, a grab shock kiss you resist an appropriate amount, open the door after to send a message, or fake send it, you’ll decide after. You’re almost divorced.
Losing a shirt, tie, tartan suit jacket, is enough to impress anybody, and who knew spanners were easy? Who would’ve thought a tap could be mended succinctly. It’s true you have a touch. Each of the three knows it. Every city woman, worker, girl.
No hands – and by holding them back the scene’s underscored with, “I saw Sherlock Holmes. I saw you in it. And you were the villain. You ended things.”
So we end this we end this we end this. We find the toolbox and we stop leaks, mistakes, slips, feelings not substantiated by knowledge or learning or friendships. We smash and we want messiness more than this but we tell everyone we want this because we want it now but now is not tomorrow.