I've been holding off from telling this story because it is, "Outing" in Mumsnet language but I'm past caring now.
Many years ago, I was written about in a Tissue of lies autobiography by a very, very casual (saw him at most half a dozen times) boyfriend.
It was a kind of, "Young man's coming of age" book, self published and utter nonsense from start to finish by somebody that everybody in our friends and co-workers group knew to be at the very least, prone to embellishment.
We were all it, of course, very thinly disguised and all of us were outraged.
It has to be said that he wrote in quite flattering terms about us all but only in the sense that at soon as we clapped eyes on our hero, we recognised his potential greatness and were falling over ourselves to be his mentor, his greatest friend, his hapless wingman at parties, or to lend him a tenner.
It probably only sold a couple of hundred copies and most of the fools that did buy it were us. Curiosity getting the better, as it were.
I, of course, was the love interest and very embarrassingly portrayed I was too. I was absolutely livid for months.
Not that I got any sympathy. "He's made you into an f'ing Bond Girl, I come off as Baldrick." said one disgruntled fellow.