Or the writer who wrote the screenplay for 500 Days of Summer, a film about a former girlfriend in which he details how she ruined his life. The opening credits have the standard disclaimer that 'any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.' Then it adds: 'Especially you, Jenny Beckman. Bitch.'
I've often thought of taking revenge on people who have hurt me in some way, but I've only actually done one thing that could be called revenge and although I'm not proud of it, it's part of my past.
Years ago, possibly 16 years or so, before I met and married my ex-husband I was in an on-off relationship with a charming Irishman. I'm a sucker for the accent, what can I tell you? We had been 'together' over a period of 9 years and the relationship - if you could call it that - was going nowhere only I couldn't see that. Or chose not to.
On the occasion in question I went to his house as we were due to go out to dinner at a very posh restaurant in the countryside. I went upstairs to freshen up and immediately noticed the odd position of the bathroom mirror. It was on a swivel base and stood on the windowsill, and was positioned for someone much shorter than either me or my then boyfriend. Something didn't seem right. Instinctively, I went into his bedroom and saw the bed had been made. But it had been made in a way he would never do it, all tucked in and pillows propped up. That's when I knew that the b*stard was sleeping with someone else.
I'm not sure why - or how - but I said nothing about it during the car journey to the restaurant. Nor did I mention it during the meal, and I remember sitting, wondering how to deal with the awful realisation that he was cheating on me.
The agony of it was building up inside me throughout the evening, and as we finished the meal I couldn't hold it back any longer. I said: 'be honest with me, are you seeing someone else?' He looked shocked but said 'I wanted to talk to you about it...' .
I stood up to go, and walked towards the door. He followed. The waiter came over with my coat and held it up for me to put on. But something inside me snapped, and instead of putting my arms into the coat I swung a right-hook at my man and landed it on his cheek. He staggered back - in shock I think, rather than pain - as I grabbed my coat and raced out to the car. Behind me I could hear gasps and chatter from the other diners. Needless to say he followed me out and we had an almighty row outside in the car park.
That was the first and last punch I ever threw, but I still remember it vividly.
Have you ever planned revenge? And did you ever go through with it? Do tell, you're amongst friends here.