What I love about being gay is that it's unpredictable. It's like getting a daily letter from the Reader's Digest. Sometimes you are Mr S of Kent, winning the cruise of a lifetime. And sometimes you get a free pen.
When a child, I was so convinced by those letters from the Reader's Digest. I knew my family was but a few weeks away from financial joy. I knew that my mum would be able to give up her second job as a cleaner, and that I'd get to finally buy every Tintin book.
So sold on the dream was I that, when we moved, I wrote to Reader's Digest to inform them of our new address. I got a charming, and slightly startled letter back.
Anyway, my point was that you never can tell what's going to be in the day's envelope. How was I to tell yesterday morning that I'd spend my evening under a blossoming tree shunting a muscly used car salesman called Tom?
Afterwards, he told me he was out clubbing again that night. He'd been out last night on pills, and was off for some more. He knew of a club that started at 4 in the morning and went on till teatime. It's rough and brilliant.
For a second, I felt whistful. I put aside the fact that both large groups of people and drugs make me paranoid and claustrophobic, and instead yearned for a sweaty sleeze pit in Vauxhall. Instead, I went home, and watched a french musical about murder.
Sparkling Cyanide (1945)
1 year ago