Over the years I’ve dated many men; some for just a couple of dates, others for longer. All these men have added to the rich tapestry of life, bringing smiles and tears, coiling me into an emotional ball but also bringing me to life in different ways.
Many of these men would make crap partners. Dodgy Dating Disasters I call them. One guy on the first date let it slip that he kept a motorbike in his kitchen and was restoring another motorbike in his lounge. Crap partner alert but great character in a novel. Another guy sent a text asking where I was. Up in Leicester visiting my Dad, I told him. ‘I didn’t realise they were playing.’ Same guy on asking what he was up to said ‘The usual evening, flicking through Sky wondering which game to follow. I’ve gone with Dortmund v Ipswich.’ Great, I’d found a football obsessive who when he wasn’t watching footie watched golf instead. And when he wasn’t watching golf he was playing snooker. Crap partner alert, great character in novel.
Another guy, perfectly kind and charming was in fact nauseatingly kind. Telling him about a bad night shift at work he’d reply ‘sit on the carpet and take a deep breathe and let the karma flow through you young lady. I’m sending positive waves to you.’ Fuck off I wanted to reply. Irritating partner, great character in novel.
Some dates are plain dull but just when you think there isn’t even a great character for a novel within the person they reveal smidgens about themselves making you detest them as partners but making you smile because they’ve fed you their character for your next novel. One guy never failed to talk about his precious pension every date. He regularly checked how it was doing. I asked him if he would ever live with someone again. His answer ‘why would I live with someone? I’ve got my pension to protect.’ Crap partner, great character.
And then there are the truly evil and chilling dates; the ones who in an argument wish you or joggers passing by cancer (and maybe mean it, who knows) or reveal their deepest thoughts – that of wishing your three children dead or referring to them as ‘the bitch, the mongrel and the bastard.’ Such men carry big warning signs – ‘avoid me like the plaque’ but actually as an author they make you smile because they are the characters that grip the readers who eagerly turn the pages with bated breath waiting to see what they are going to do next.
Like an artist we observe, we paint what we see, we use what we know, we gather snippets from everyone we meet, as if foraging in the hedgerow.
As partners we loathe them, as characters we absolutely love them!