Roses are red

Violets are blue

If you want to know the answers ……..

Then turn to the back page of this book immediately.

Incredibly I slept with a girl who did just that. She would read the first few pages just to get to know the characters, who they were, where they were, what they were, and then turn to the final page. Her justification was logical, made lots of sense and totally infuriated me. Why waste precious time reading a story that you weren’t going to like, or one that would make you feel anything less than wonderful? Why read a piece of fiction that wouldn’t make your life finer? It didn’t really matter what I said about plot development, denouement or surprise. She didn’t want to be surprised, she wanted to know that her time was being properly invested. She hated waste.

If you read the first paragraph carefully you must have noted that this was a girl I slept with. Clearly it wasn’t a one night stand, you don’t generally pick up the book laid casually by the side of the bed the first time you’ve casually laid someone in the bed. No this was a long term commitment. We had time to make love and not turn the lights off immediately. We could bring cups of tea to bed and read great literature as part of the post-coital experience. Amour and Amis, striving and Irving, bonking and Tolkien, the literary allusions began to get silly. After a time the habit began to get to me. If she wanted to know the conclusion before the story evolved, what did she want from me? Was our affair going to be planned, spelt out, neatly wrapped up and the butcher brought to heel in 20 easy chapters like a bad Christie?

She hated waste. The tissue was always there to dry up any telltale signs of bodily fluids. Clean it away quick. I wanted to lie and luxuriate, she needed to mop up and move on.

Apart from that there were the differences in our literary heroes. How could I make it with anyone who didn’t think Stephen King was a great storyteller? I could be a pretty magnificent storyteller myself for a free ride. But that’s another story.

Part Two

Believe it or not we didn’t break up over reading habits, but a tie. It’s strange how ties can become important to some men. The sort of guy who wears the same suit every day for twenty years suddenly starts wearing bright blue silk and red Mickey Mice round his neck. Grey socks, grey underpants and gaudy, loud, (screaming) neckwear. I never thought I was one of them, but I had one tie that seemed to be perfect. It always knotted neatly ((not too big, not too small). It nearly always ended up the right length, past the belt but not hanging round my crutch.