Reading of the Banns

Well, ok, it wasn’t quite that but Alex and me did go to register our intent at the town hall this morning. Tom, the registrar could not have been nicer. He told us all about his gay sister and then there was his uncle – the only gay in a small village in Lincolnshire. I couldn’t help thinking how unfortunate the poor man was. What could be worse than being gay and having no-one to play with no matter how protective and understanding the village.

After a few words of explanation of the procedure, Tom asked Alex to leave the room while I was interviewed alone. OMG. I racked my brains to try and think what her favourite colour is this week. I quickly decided to opt for green if asked, but dithered whether it was red. I was asked details about myself such as my name and date of birth. I resisted the urge to indicate that as he had my passport in his possession he could check for himself. I answered his questions without hesitation. My mother’s name, my father’s name. Alex’s full name. Her date of birth and so on. But the question of her favourite colour was not an issue. He then printed a page and I had to check it very carefully for accuracy and sign it.

Then it was my turn to leave the room and Alex went in for her interrogation. How nerve racking. One wrong answer and our whole plans are in disarray. I waited anxiously in the ante room considering the plasterwork. Eventually Tom came in for me and I was back at his desk beside Alex and it was smiles all round. As soon as we handed over the £67 in used bank notes the job was done. He then referred to Alex as my fiancé, so we are now officially engaged.

We went on for a celebratory lunch in the sun to mark our new status and while waiting for the salads to arrive I asked Alex what her favourite colour was. I was right. It is green.

Afternoon Tea

Alex and I had spent Sunday morning painting and decorating after spending all day Saturday at it as well. The Leonard Cohen words from the Tower of Song, accurately summarised how I felt, "I ache in the places I used to play". Alex and me visited a Builders Depot and paid for some flooring to be picked up by our darling builder. Darling, my foot. But after weeks of stand-offish behaviour on both our parts, we decided it was in our best interests to sweeten him up so that he gets on and finishes the job.

In the midst of all this grout, paint brushes, white spirit and putty Jack rang about afternoon tea in his new apartment and to meet his beau, Nils. So rarely does one receive an invitation to the above than no sooner had we received we accepted it with an alacrity that could have been viewed by some as vulgar. On arrival we were taken on a guided tour. The late 30s block had several rooms and while none of them were too big, the picture rails and fireplace gave it a sense of period. We were impressed with his £2000 sofa specially ordered and imported directly from Italy. His dining table was imported from Vietnam, but not directly by him, you understand. I believe a certain John Lewis brokered the deal.

And so the afternoon tea. The Vietnamese table positively creaked with goodies. There were three varieties of sandwiches on offer. Beef, egg mayonnaise and ham was the choice, with not a cucumber in sight. Next there was a series of cakes. Fresh cream sponge, as light as the proverbial feather, then a walnut topped fruit cake, Scandanavian cinnamon buns, fresh cream eclairs, custard pies and Belgian chocolate biscuits.

Without doubt, the highlight of the afternoon was meeting Nils, who has put the spring into Jack's step along with the twinkle in his eye. He was absolutely lovely. Nils was warm and chuckled easily and we got the feeling that this was it for the two of them. They slipped into the "we" as if they had spent a lifetime together. It's wonderful to see Jack so happy. The conversation meandered to matters Swedish with ABBA coming up in the conversation. Jack mentioned a lesser known song of theirs, "The day before you came", which I think, he thought, summed up their coming together. What a romantic old soul.

Falling in Love the other side of 50

Jack is one of my longstanding friends and he and I both moved from the old country to London around the same time way back in the late 80s. And while I was happy to live in Zone 2, Jack wanted to be near all the action and moved to Zone 1 and remained resolutely there. The advantage for me in this, was that Jack was a mine of information on the best bars and eateries within the central zone. In fact, Jack introduced me to many a fine place in WC1, SW1 and nearby postcodes. Without him, the Blues Bar, Ramen, Swallow Street, the Dutch Bar, The French House, St Christopher's Place, Marylebone High Street, Charlotte Street, Lamb Conduit Street to name but a few, would have remained untried and undiscovered by myself. In the 25 years or so, that we have been larking around the Piccadilly Line, Jack has had three partners of significance as well as countless nights of love with temporary and transitory figures but none led to lasting commitment. In fact, he resigned himself to an uncommitted existence and declared that he cherished his freedom, just like a tom cat.

Back in May, Jack invited me to try a new Thai place he had discovered in Covent Garden. He told me that evening over dinner about the flat he had just bought out in Zone 3. It’s on the ground floor, he declared, thinking of the future. The French windows open out onto a communal garden and the block is small and well tended. It’s time I moved to a less frenetic zone and lifestyle he sighed, a touch wistfully, I thought. As we parted that night I wished him well in his new place and hoped that the move would go smoothly for him.

Jack rang me two weeks after that Thai dinner. How is the new place I asked him. It’s fine, he brushed me aside quite quickly. He then informed me breathlessly, I have met someone. Four little words, I have met someone. You know when you hear those words that someone, is much more, than just anyone. Someone, is absolutely significant. Someone, is life changing. Well, take my breath away. Resigned Jack, that I had dinner with a few weeks earlier had gone, and hello to excited, life-loving Jack, down the phone line. The transformation was simply executed. The very day that Jack’s flat purchase was completed he was having a quiet drink in his local gay bar, when in walked Nils: they have barely been apart since.

Last night was the first time I could prise Jack away from Nils and we met up in town for some Tapas and Rioja. I am glad to report that Jack’s as in love three months on as he was at the outset. The tom cat has been tamed and is purring with delight. It just goes to show, that when you least expect it, love can walk in the door and take you completely by surprise. What’s more, being the other side of 50 is no barrier either. On the home front, Jack has scarcely spent a night in his new flat in Zone 3. Nils, as it happens, has a great place. And, yes it is in Zone 1. So, here’s to Jack and Nils. Be happy, you two. Purrr...

The Summer Ball Season

Let's go to a summer ball, Alex said, and so went to Stonewall's, a fundraiser to support the eradication of homophobia. The venue was the swish Roof Gardens in Kensington and the evening was balmy. Stella Duffy opened proceedings with an empassioned reminder, that Martina and Billie Jean apart, out sport persons are a rarity. Gareth Thomas was given a cheer by us all, in abstentia, but Stella's words did make us stop and ponder the fact that in the midst of the World Cup, there is no out and proud premier division footballer. The roofgarden made a refreshing change from some of the dives wherein I have attended fundraisers in the past. The last time I was that close to a flamingo I was in the Great Rift Valley. We enjoyed our bbq alongside the two lovely Patricks. They make a habit of attending as many of these events as possible. The previous evening they were at Elton John’s White Tie & Tiara Ball at a cost of three mortgage payments for us mere mortals.

Alex’s parents came for the weekend and we ate al fresco at our local Italian on Saturday evening. Italians are great maitre d’s and can make such a drama out of the simplest things. Straightforward statements become the grandest pronouncements of authority by virtue of hand movements combined with a facial expression fused with a slight shrug of the shoulder and a raised eyebrow thrown in for good measure. “The chilli sauce must be hot,,, but not too hot...”.

Sunday was England’s big day and two Irish friends came out to the suburbs for the occasion. It was officially the hottest day of the year and there was a palpable air of excitement building up all morning. BBQ proteins were flying of the shelves and beer stocks were rapidly depleted. We were lucky to find ice in the third outlet we tried. We repaired to the pub to lend our support to the three lions. The hope which was very much alive in the first half vaporised as the second half progressed and twenty minutes before the end the writing was on the wall. I am no football expert but was amazed that such a good team (allegedly) could be beaten by what is on paper, a lesser team, so comprehensively. The three lions became the three minnows but for one Italian it was always a win-win situation. Fabio is one of the few in Britain, the Patricks, celebrities and footballers apart, who could now afford to attend the Elton John Ball.