Germaine Greer wrote a 30,000 words love letter to Martin Amis in the seventies, with passages such as this:

“It astonishes me with that tobacco hair and those tangled black eyelashes that you do not have brown eyes. Your eyes … are cool-coloured, sort of air force blue-grey, and strangely unreflecting. You slide them away from most things and look at people through your thick eyelids, under your hair, your eyebrows and your lashes. You look at mouths more than eyes. Is it because you hate to look up? It is very shy and graceful and tantalising, as well you know.”

Did you ever write love letters? Still write them? Have any little notes tucked away in a shoe box somewhere? How would you feel if someone wrote a whole fucking novella about you?