The yearning years The yearning years, aged seventeen. I wanted something from young men. Not even sure what. But the ones I was meeting, I was not getting – that special something from. What was it exactly I wanted? I had read Romeo and Juliet, I had read Mansfield Park. I thought I knew how men were supposed to act. Real Book Men. Not the boys up the road who teased us, tormented us and got on our nerves. These Book Men acted with kindness, consideration and were complimentary and I wanted it, But I wasn’t getting it. None of my boyfriends, not one of them was giving me the Mr Darcy treatment and I wanted it. Perhaps the post-industrial back drop of a Northern City did not engender the kind of romance, fine words and sweet gestures I yearned for. In the end I realized this book behaviour was not going to happen. Swains turned up in pea green Ladas not white stallions. The best I could hope for was The latest Prin...