I like skidding along a slippery floor in just my socks.
And sending my shopping cart spinning on its own down an empty supermarket aisle.
Sometimes I lean over the handle and spin with it.
I like the smell of cut grass after the rain. Why does it smell of cucumber?
And the ‘wheek’ of a guinea pig when it knows parsley is about to happen.
And a spice rack in alphabetical order.
I like pushing over rows of neatly placed leaflets.
And neatening messily placed leaflets into tidy piles.
And looking into other people’s lamp-lit lounges before they draw their curtains on a winter evening.
There is a joy in a sunrise (despite the fact I loathe being up early in the morning).
And discovering a new cheese.
I like trying to sing along to Kpop, even though I only understand three words, and can only pronounce a few more.
I like surreptitious graffiti.
And a whole day in pyjamas just reading a book.
And being dared to do things.
And swearing.
And reindeers.
And yellow-spotted ribbons as shoe laces.
So, why am I telling you all this?
Because people are never one-dimensional. And, as writers, we need to remember that our characters shouldn’t be either.
They will have food they prefer, and music they respond to, and political ideals that run in their blood. Even if these things are never part of the story, we should still try to see them as more than the part they play for us.
And maybe, quietly, we should take them aside sometime and whisper, “I like biting all the chocolate off a Jaffa Cake first. What about you?”
If you listen hard you’ll hear them confess, “I once spoon-flicked a grape at a stranger in a restaurant, and they never knew it was me.”
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