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He's a writer. Well, he writes. He hasn't had anything published yet but if you listen to him he's the best thing since… oh, I don't know, whoever happens to be the literary equivalent of sliced bread, I suppose.

Of course he did write for TV first but that doesn't count if you ask him. Nope. That was selling out, in fact nothing short of intellectual and artistic prostitution. Maybe, but at least it paid the bloody bills and we had some sort of social life. I seem to remember we actually used to have fun back then. I even got a minor character in a soap named after me. But they had to kill me off pretty soon because the actress playing the part got pregnant and quit. Lucky for some.

So he's a proper writer now. Oh, yes. Finally concentrating on his true vocation, doing something worthwhile and meaningful, blah di blah. All it means is that he's stuck in the house all day getting more and more tetchy, touchy and fat. And whenever I go out on my own I get accused of being selfish and unsupportive. Apparently, I don't understand the needs of a literary genius. Iris would. That's Iris Murdoch in case you wonder. I know! I'm being compared with somebody who is not only dead but was also played by Kate Winslet in that film a few years ago. How ridiculous and unfair is that? So I told him I'd like to see Iris spend her days doing his washing and cleaning, and her nights either trying to sleep through his snoring or pretending to be impressed every time he manages to find at least one of her erogenous zones without having to stop and ask for directions. He never mentioned her again after that.

However, to prove that I do care, I've read most of his so-called masterpiece. I guess it's meant to be some terribly clever commentary on human condition, modern life and all that usual rubbish, so naturally it's both pretentious and depressing but he had to go one step further and make it painfully boring as well. The whole plot revolves around the main hero repeatedly failing to get laid, which leads to lengthy laments about the impossibility of forming a meaningful and lasting connection with another human being. Personally I'd blame the hero's lack of success on the fact that he comes across as a self-righteous and misogynistic prick.

As for his female characters, they're all based on his ex-girlfriends. As he hasn't got that many, the choice is rather limited, I'm afraid. Which makes the fact that I never get mentioned all the more surprising. To be honest, much as I hated his pompous scribblings, I was still slightly disappointed, not to say offended, not to see any traces of yours truly in any of the characters. Female or male, for that matter. So I actually asked him why I never made it into his book. He mumbled something about knowing me too well and having a feeling that my character would be rather two-dimensional. I asked him if he means that my breasts are too small. He laughed, but a tad too hysterically if you ask me.

Do I love him? Of course I don't! But I'm nearly thirty and I'm sure there are worse boyfriends than unpublished writers. I hear that unemployed actors are a total nightmare.

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