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Rosie Scribble

The Netflix hole in my life

in Film

It happens every time. I discover something brilliant on Netflix and binge-watch the entire series, or five.

First it was Lost, then Breaking Bad, The Good Wife and Homeland.

This time round it was House of Cards. All four series in 4 weeks. That’s a lot of viewing. You do the maths.

But now I’m left in that place again. The Netflix hole that enters your life when a series you love ends.

Nothing feels quite the same.

The characters are gone, the story is over. There nothing to fill its place.

Occasionally you forget the hole exists and settle down in the evenings as you would normally do, only to remember that Frank Underwood has said his final line to camera. There are no more episodes to watch.

Logging on to Netflix is pointless. It’s the series, the characters, the drama, the acting you’ve been hooked on for the last few weeks that you want. Everything else is irrelevant.

So here I am, blogging instead of watching Netflix. Allowing time to pass until I can accept Frank and Clare Underwood are gone for now. Until different characters and a different storyline can take their place.

But not just yet. It’s far too soon.


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