I’ve just finished watching both series of The Fall. I probably should be saying “seasons” as everyone seems to have adopted The Americanism. Not me.
Jeeeeesus it’s good. Watched the entire lot in three nights. Three nights of utterly shitting myself while Mr MotherFudger took to his bed (sheer exhaustion/man flu/sick of hearing me talk about The Fall?).
As usual, I was late to the party, considering everyone else watched it in 2014, but whatever.
So, it was amazing, I was sans husband, but despite bricking it, I ploughed on and watched. Then every night feared for my life as I locked my door and ran upstairs. Then suddenly, it occurred to me, even if there was a serial killer where I lived (which is somewhat different to Northern Ireland), Paul Spector would NEVER choose me as a victim:
1. If you’ve been in my house recently you’ll have noticed the insane amount of Lego littering the carpets everywhere. I don’t need to harp on about the sheer pain of treading on those bad boys. Paulyboy wouldn’t be able to stop himself shrieking out and shouting “feck” while trying to get to my bedroom.
AND even if he did, he’d then have to get through the corridor of noise pollution that is the never-ending sound of a faux drill on the tool bench or the sanity-breaking play piano.
Fuck you Paul.
2. You know that pretty underwear with the little bows on he likes. Yup, none of that in my underwear drawer. Even if he did get past the above, get into my bedroom past the clean or dirty mounds of laundry, find his way to my drawer, he would be disappointed. Pretty Victoria’s Secret panties? Beautiful lace brassieres he’d want to sniff. Try greying supermarket cotton briefs bought in 2012 Paul. Want to trim a bit off for your little envelopes now? No, I didn’t think so. Paul: 0, Me: 2.
3. Key theme with his victims. Size 10 brunettes. Errmm, so that’s not me then. For the first time in my life I’m saying hooray for baby weight. One in the eye to you Paul. You wouldn’t stand a chance trying to lift me into the bath for a good wash. I win.
4. Sateeeeen blouses. I mean, firstly fashion faux pas, even if you are a breathy-voiced Gillian Anderson or one of his victims. I’m thinking the Wardrobe Team had a plan and stuck to it. I always wondered who bought satin or sateeen blouses – apparently the Wardrobe Team from The Fall. These do not feature in my cupboard (thank fuck). There’s some shit in there, but a blouse ain’t included. Serial killer averted.
5. Fast approaching my 37th birthday, I have to face facts that I am now TOO FUCKING OLD to be his victim. The late 20s/early 30s laddeeezzz he goes for are basically younger. Sigh. This somewhat depresses me. I have become a cliche of yearning for my youth. Suck.
So now, bring on series 3. I have no fear.
Till next time my lovelies.