Phoebe is our greatest living export
Have we reached Peak Phoebe Waller-bridge yet? Have we? I do very much hope not: that stiletto wit, that expressive hair, that sculpted Bloomsbury Set angularity.
There she is on the cover of Vogue, daringly soignée yet challenging. Inside, she’s doing her eyebrow thing in a couture frock on public transport; has quizzical ever looked quite so intelligent?
Why, she’s our greatest living creative export, what with a purported $20 million-ayear deal with Amazon, writing credits on the new James Bond movie, a fistful of awards for Killing Eve and, of course, absolutely everything about Fleabag.
The privately educated 34-year-old has the world at her feet, and despite – no make that, because of – her quintessential Englishness, she’s upped and defected to New York.
I don’t blame her; all the things that make Waller-bridge so damned fabulous will be weaponised and used against her if she hangs around here too much longer.
Sad to say, in Britain we only applaud success up to a point; thereafter tall poppy syndrome takes over and we feel an irresistible urge to cut our celebrities down to size.
Instead we will feel her loss until she tires of the whole upbeat “Have a nice day” shtick and scampers back home to the drizzle, when we will gratefully embrace her as one of our own.