I wrote a couple of months ago about a horrendous crush I'd developed on Superman (yes, you read right. Not much of a mind blowing announcement: "Geek girl fancies comic book hero. "). Oh god, how pathetic).
However, the revolving door of fictional men I get crushes on seems to have stopped right firmly at the door of Jane Eyre's Mr Rochester.
This is of course helped by the fact that he's recently been played with Toby Stephen's in the BBC production, which is just amazing. After watching the BBC production, I was in the throes of the 19th century novel, and I have to say, I don't know where this novel has been all my life! And on top of that, I can't get over it was written by a Bronte, considering how I can't even count the ways in which I loathe and despise Emily Bronte and her pathetic book "Wuthering Heights" (for god's sake Catherine and Heathcliff. Get a god damn fucking room, or go get lost on the moors until collapse of starvation and wild dogs eat you).
Mr Rochester though. God damn. Whilst it's sad for someone my age to lust after a fictional character, especially the youngest son of a wealthy man who ends up (LOOK AWAY IF YOU DON'T WANT ME TO SPOIL IT) locking his wife away in a tower and becomes a brooding, angry, depressed, hollow shell of a man. But there you go. It's too late. He's long "dead" and I think he's great.