If you happen to be worried about getting older, Olivia Cooke is an excellent friend to have. She’s repeating the pep talk that she recently gave to a friend who was “panicking” about ageing another year: “32 is the new 22 – it really is,” she declares over a mid-afternoon pot of English breakfast tea. And, at 31 myself, I’m glad to let her finish the thought. “You wouldn’t pay to go back to 22,” she continues, with feeling. “Well, I wouldn’t.”
Cooke herself is nearly three months away from turning 29. But more than racing towards milestones she says she and her friends are regressing. She’s just got back from a holiday in Sicily. Before that, Edinburgh for the Fringe festival. Before that, the desert. (“A few days to dry out,” she captioned the party pictures on Instagram. “Lol kidding.”) She seems reassured when I tell her my summer has been much the same. “We’re going out more, we’re drinking more,” she says. “It’s escapism, isn’t it? With everything going on in the world, the future feels so uncertain.”
