Thinking about Men.

And so, dear reader, my lovely publisher-to-be, Choc Lit (whom I feel I may have mentioned just a smidgeon somewhere upon these blogs) hath recruited some of us writerly types to speak upon the subject of Heroes at the forthcoming RNA Conference.  RNA in this instance, stands for Romantic Novelists' Association, a name purposely designed to strike fear into anyone who doesn't know precisely where to place an apostrophe.  And so, my little snugglebunnies, I must apply myself thickly and evenly (avoiding the eye area) to the problem.

Talking about my heroes.

Now, my taste in men is somewhat... ahem...alternative.  I have to be possibly the only woman who can salivate over the sight of Tony Robinson (apart, presumably, from Mrs Tony Robinson).  I am well aware that he is a small, square man of middle years with very poor eyesight, but there is just something...appealing about him.  He has a touch of the 'last puppy in the pet shop' about him, as does the wonderful (and equally sexy) David Mitchell.  It's the big brown eyes thing.

And herein lies my problem.

How do I begin a talk about men I find attractive without reducing the audience to tears of laughter and, possibly, a whip-round for a George Clooney poster upon which I might imprint myself?  It is a well-known fact that writers of Romance feature men as heroes who have to turn sideways to come into a room as though they have swallowed a cereal box, and whose faces are always craggy and macho. Which doesn't sound much like Tony Robinson to me.  Although, in a desperate bid to appear normal here, I do also quite like Johnny Depp, although he never features as a hero in any of my books.

He's a sex god, I tell you.  A sex god!

Possibly I really like Our Tone because, as a Time Team person, he would find me relatively young.  I mean, compared to Romans and things.  And he wouldn't even have to excavate very much in order to find me, simply opening a door HAS to be a relief to a man who normally has to remove several tons of earth to reach the object of his interest.  He might need to blow off some dust, but what woman doesn't have that problem?

I also have to do something about my hair.  I believe I have covered The Face (as you all should) on a previous blog, well now is the Coming of The Hair.  And I only have two and a bit weeks to subdue it in order for me to be allowed on public transport without a special licence.  So I'd better go and make a start.  Anyone got an industrial-grade razor?