There he is people. Lantern jaw, hair ironed to his scalp, chest hair removed by some painful method leaving gleaming pecs and John Travolta hips. Image control in operation to protect the more delicate sensibilities.
Our hero.
Or rather, this is the Mills & Boon view of perfect manhood. Noble, never allowing a flicker of emotion to dampen those piercing blue eyes.
But many men cry. Sometimes in private. Often in silence. Almost always never admitting it.
Well, I admit it. I do cry sometimes. Especially when I am writing a particularly emotional or poignant scene. I used to cry buckets at Lassie movies.
Looking back, I realise that I am so immersed in the drama of my own imagination's creation that I am in a different place, a different zone.
There are men that I can't imagine weeping. Although I have been looking out for the sheen of damp tears on Boris Johnson’s cheeks I imagine I will be disappointed.
Until life hits them in the guts. Someone I know well is in this position. A member of his family suddenly texted his own wife after midnight to tell her he was walking out on her and their two young boys. The knock-on emotional impact resonated throughout the family.
Shattering.
If I had written that scene in a book or script it would probably have been to illustrate the differences between people trapped in their emotional spiders webs.
Their own meat cages.
It's when it gets close to home that it ceases to be fiction.
One thing I am sure about. Writers absorb these experiences and recycle them.
I can live with that.