So, people FKA Cumberbabes/cookies/bitches, how are we? I’m still in mourning, but over the immediate shock and denial, so this is literally my last ever *pauses, cries a little* post about Benedict Cumberbatch. Can’t believe I wrote that *pauses, fetches ice-cream*. See, I’m even eating again.

Don’t know about you, but things that can still make me feel like my ovaries are in mortal agony: 1 One mug, pink, reads “The Future Mrs Benedict Cumberbatch”. 2 One life-size cardboard cutout, tear-stained, original cost £35. (No, Mother, it wouldn’t work with a different face.) 3 One set of Benedict Cumberbatch edible cupcake toppers. Even before he was engaged, I respected his talent too much to stick his head on some frosting and eat it – now, it will never happen. The media always had it totally wrong about weird, obsessed, etc Cumberbatch fandom. 4 The 2015 official Benedict Cumberbatch calendar, still shrink-wrapped. Thanks, Benedict and Sophie, it arrived literally the day you put your announcement in the Times, just saying. I know we all wish you every possible happiness. If it lasts. 5 Twelve front row tickets for Hamlet, one for every Saturday of the run, soon to be available on eBay. Btw, somebody tell me, does Hamlet ever make it out of Elsinore? 6 Finally, but only because I already threw away the Sherlock thongs, one Barbican red membership card (price £100) bought to guarantee Hamlet tickets, not that I’m bearing a grudge, but WTF use is that? Note to Tom Hiddleston: if you’re reading this and can promise to stay single until after you’ve done Hamlet, or at least before booking opens (and that’s one entire day some of us will never get back), I would consider transferring right across.

Because other than becoming a Hiddlestoner, the only worthy BC replacements have to be Eddie Redmayne and Matt Smith, or do I hear a voice saying RPatz? Bear in mind their significant others. No, let’s not be hurt like that again. Ever. So my next post will be on Tom *faints with longing* Hiddleston.