This Is Not Romantic Fiction or Chic Lit by Alex Cavendish

I can tell you this. I had my heart set on you from the moment your eyes fell on this page. Wait. Stop. Please stay here with me. I don't know you and you don't know me – indulge me for a moment. I can only say this. I was determined to have you totally and utterly. How was I to achieve this you may ask?

My attempt to learn ballroom dancing was first. I would sweep you off your feet. Sadly, this was a terrible, unmitigated failure. I tried so hard for years but still I could not dance in time. I would have trodden on your feet and annoyed you. I would danced off the beat and irritated you. I would have looked like a fool trying to tango and embarrassed you. And, I can tell you, I was thoroughly sick of the sound of salsa from the moment I first heard it – but I forced myself to continue. For you.

Then there was music. I would sing and make your heart melt. I tried so hard to learn music. I would sing and play for you. Just to make you smile. This was not my finest hour. I played too many, so many, bad notes. It was not good. It was certainly not good enough for you. You deserve so much more.

Next came writing. Yes I wanted to write a book. I wanted to write a book. For you. I could read it to you and look at your face as I recited the passages. Then I did it. It was not good. Next, I wrote a childrens book as they are easy. Wrong. It was rubbish or only slightly better than rubbish. Children would have cried tears of boredom. You would have shouted me down. I was not going to give up easily. I wrote another childrens book. It was a bit better.

And, now, the culmination. I am writing something for you, personally. To be frank because I love you, but that is to jump to the end of this story. Bear with me. It may feel a little weird but it will be worth it. After all you know nothing about me or what I look like. You don’t know what you are missing.

It is a bit of a strange set up I will accept! You see I am going to start off by saying this is not going to be romantic fiction. But, despite myself, I am going to get drawn into it by your constant demands. Afterwards, I am then going to talk about something completely different. So that is I why I say this is a strange tale indeed. On another note that will become increasingly clear - without compunction I can also confess I prefer 1982 to whatever time it is now. That is 1982 not 1882 for the record, but notwithstanding, I am going to write in a way that seems more like 1882 with a bad hangover. Don’t know why, but I like it. Certainly I hope you will too. Bear with me on this. It will be exciting for you.

Now, everyone tells me you only want to hear romantic fiction and while I do like you greatly, and sincerely enjoy your company, that being an understatement of course, rather, I should say every moment that I don’t see you is a moment that has dropped out of all existence and means nothing for my life except for the fact that there is a big black hole for each and every moment that I have not spent with you. Well, perhaps now I overstate. Nevertheless as much as I know how much you love to hear these sexy tales of chic-lit about all kinds of romantic ‘xxxing around, screwing, kissing, tight trysts, wrapped see through plastic on soft skin and xxx-me eyes as raging hormone filled xxxx enter soft, moist, wet, fragrant bays and such that is not something that I have to offer or would countenance in any way. In the vernacular you can ‘forget it’ if you are here in some pestering, seedy attempt to try and surreptitiously influence me to go down the path of romantic fiction, sexy novels and the like. It is nothing less than soft porn. A lowest common denominator medium. A salty form that I shall have nothing to do with.

Read these words: no sexy words or dirty plotlines and certainly no hard core porn.

But just for now. Indulge me and lets me have your eyes on my story. Now. Yes, now. We will begin. So tuck yourself into your bed and pour a glass of brandy.