SWAN SONGS

 

Tarn Swan

 

extracts From My Life With Stardust Twinkles

 

December 29th 2004-to-December 29th 2005

 

Smashwords Edition

 

Copyright © 2010 Tarn Swan

 

 

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Cover Design Copyright (C) 2010

by Donna Casey: http://DigitalDonna.com

 

 

In Memoriam Steven K. 2nd January 1971 to 25th January 2005

 

After Darkness, Light…rest, until we meet again, our dear friend

 

 

 

 

Extracts from my life with Stardust Twinkles

 

29th December 2004:

 

Hello And Welcome To My Life

 

I’ve often talked about keeping a journal, but have done little about it until now. I’m no Samuel Pepys let’s be clear on that, but I think I’ve got a tale or two to tell and a song worth singing about life with my partner Stardust Twinkles or to give him his proper birth name Jonathan Lane, and to that end this diary is dedicated. Twinkles isn’t the sort of person you can easily categorize. He’s a gay man with transvestite tendencies. He’s also a drag queen upon occasion and in his case a drama queen pretty much 24/7. If you’re insistent on a label then you could say he’s transgender or gender fluid depending on how you view these things. I suppose the best way to categorise him is actually not to try and categorise him. He simply is who he is and I love him to bits even when he’s driving me mad. I have to report that he’s not always easy to live with.

My name, I may as well get it out of the way, is Tarn. Yep, unusual isn’t it? Scottish in origin I believe, and my surname is, wait for it, Swan…pause for sniggers to die down…yes I know tarn means lake, that’s me, Swan Lake. You can imagine the hilarity it caused at school registration sessions, mainly among the teachers I might add. My parents gave little thought to the fact that the Christian name they both liked, in honour of a Scottish uncle on my mother’s side (who reputedly has lots of money to leave when he finally shuffles off this mortal coil) didn’t team particularly well with the surname Swan. Of course my being homosexual, or gay, or queer, or whatever term you prefer to apply, adds to the hilarity some folk seem obliged to feel whenever I introduce myself. I’m well aware everyone in my office calls me Rudolf Nureyev behind my back. I don’t mind too much. I like to think it’s affectionately meant and they did come up with a cracking Christmas present for me this year, a pair of ballet tickets for a new production of the gay version of Swan Lake. Okay, as gifts go it’s slightly tongue in cheek, but all the same I’m really looking forward to it. I haven’t told Twinkles yet. It’s no good telling him such things too far ahead of time; he just goes overboard with excitement.

At the best of times Twinkles, as he likes to be known, isn’t what you’d call a morning person and this morning as soon became clear, wasn’t the best of times. Despite me yelling from the foot of the stairs that time was moving on and he was going to make us late for work he refused to shift his bum from bed. He resorted to retrieving one of his high heels from under the bed and chucking it across the floor fondly thinking it would fool me into thinking he was up and about. I resorted to threats yelling if he didn’t move his little arse out of bed pronto there’d be tears before breakfast, and they wouldn’t be mine.

Ten minutes later he appeared in the kitchen wearing nothing but a sullen expression and a pair of fluffy, silver-pink high-heeled mules. The ones I’d bought him for Christmas. He loves them. While Twinkles and nudity are usually a favourite combination of mine, it was a chilly morning and I did think he was risking getting a cold. I suggested he might like to put his dressing gown on. Cue action. Apparently, his favourite silk kimono with black feather trim was no longer in favour, because it made him look fat and he wasn’t wearing it ever again. I gave an inward sigh at that point. It was that time of year again. The festivities were all but over and people were weighing up the cost, both financially and in terms of over indulgence on the rich foods that had been on offer over the festive period. I told him he looked exactly the same as he had before Christmas, absolutely gorgeous and not to worry about a bitchy comment made by a recent arrival and new rival at The Pink Parrot Club the night before. (The Pink Parrot is the hub of our social life; it caters for the cross-dressing and gay fetish communities. The leather boys downstairs and transgender ladies upstairs) Despite my assurances he remained adamant. He’d gained weight. It wasn’t just his kimono that made him look fat either. It was everything.

I pointed out that he’d have to find something to wear as he could hardly turn up at the Jewellers shop he worked in, wearing nothing but a pair of fluffy mules, no matter how pretty they were. He wasn’t going to frigging work as he hated the first frigging day back after frigging Christmas because it was always frigging mayhem with people returning the shit presents they’d been bought and demanding frigging refunds. I could just phone him in frigging sick because he was sick, absolutely sick of frigging work. I told him I’d do no such thing and was it really necessary for him to frig quite so much. As far as I was concerned he was going to work, end of discussion. Sometimes he needs someone to make decisions for him because he gets beyond making them for himself, sensible ones anyway.

Ushering him upstairs I began the thankless task of helping him find something to go with the grey suit that is obligatory attire for assistant managers.

Sitting on the bed, arms folded, legs crossed, he proceeded to turn his cute little nose up at everything I suggested. The pink shirt was too tight it made him look like a bloated marzipan pig (his words, not mine) The blue shirt was the wrong shade of blue it made his skin look dirty. The lavender shirt was just so out of fashion he’d have to be declared officially dead before even considering putting it on his body, his loathsome fat body, and incidentally, it was all my fault he’d gained weight in the first place. I should have stopped him eating so much chocolate over Christmas. After all I was supposed to be his Dominant and what kind of rotten Dom would allow his partner to get fat on chocolate? I said the type of Dom who didn’t know his partner was stuffing his greedy face with sweets from the giant tin of Quality Street that he’d slyly stashed under his side of the bed without my knowledge. Huh, he curled his lip and said if I was a half decent Dom I’d have spotted that one straight away. I said unlike the fictitious domestic Doms he read about I wasn’t psychic.

He continued to reject any clothing I offered. The lemon shirt was just yuck he’d seen more attractive shades of bile, it would make him look jaundiced and he wouldn’t even consider being seen dead in it. In fact it was too vile to even be cremated in and didn’t I know, ducky, that lemon was even more out of fashion than lavender and was I trying to destroy his fashion reputation? Then why don’t you just wear a plain white one, I said reasonably, through gritted teeth. He flung a fit. WHITE, he screeched. I’m not wearing a white shirt. Do I look like a boring straight accountant? I don’t think so! As well as the fit, he flung the shirt and a copy of Hello Magazine before kicking his mules across the bedroom in one of his trademark, post Christmas, going back to work tantrums. One of them crashed into the wardrobe door leaving an ugly scratch.

I lost patience with him. In my opinion he was being plain naughty and I wasn’t putting up with it. Hauling him up from the bed I gave his bare bottom a damn good smacking. He still wasn’t speaking to me when I dropped him off at work. I watched him flounce across the pavement looking very smart in his grey suit with white shirt and navy blue silk tie. The bright pink sequinned boots and pink boa he wore in lieu of a scarf looked a little incongruous, but a transvestite come drag queen’s nature will out even when they’re largely in ‘civvies.’ Uttering a prayer for him to be in a better mood when I picked him up, I set off for my own place of work.

 

 

31st December 2004:

 

A Stitch In Time

 

As it transpired he was still in a foul mood when I collected him from work the day before yesterday. He was horrible to be around, bitching, sniping and moaning about everything. I told him he seemed tired and insisted he went to bed early for the sake of sanity, my sanity that is. He wasn’t much better next morning declaring his intention to live on hot water and lemon juice for a week as a means of losing his yuletide weight gain, which turned out to be a ‘hefty’ two pounds. I declared my intention of being very pissed off with him if he even tried such a silly fad diet. Sensible eating and cutting out rubbishy foods would be more than sufficient. He gave me a sour look and claimed he wasn’t the only one who had put on weight over Christmas and maybe I should consider the lemon juice diet for a fortnight, if not a month. I said maybe I should consider walloping his bitchy backside several shades of crimson, as a means of losing my professed weight gain by vigorous exercise. That shut him up.

 

Thankfully he was a lot brighter this morning and looking forward to getting dressed up and celebrating the New Year in a new frock…black and glittery, cut low on the cleavage with a matching stole and a new pair of sparkly strappy sandals. He phoned me at the office at half past eleven in a state approaching euphoria. Brian, a good friend of ours and the owner of The Pink Parrot Club, had just called to offer him, at long last, a spot on stage at the PP, and this very night too, New Year’s Eve. The place would be buzzing and packed to the doors with representatives from every sector of the cross dressing community, from drag queens to transsexuals and every variation in between. As luck would have it one of the clubs dedicated chorus girls, Lulukalala, or as his mother knows him, Fred Easby, had come a cropper the night before when he’d been hailing a taxi to take him home. He’d caught one of his six-inch stilettos in a crack in the pavement and badly turned his ankle. The Pink Parrot was therefore short of a dancer/singer to back the resident Star of the Cabaret session, esteemed songster and drag queen Ms Cherie Pie. How had that led to Twinkle being offered the position? Well, Lulu happens to be Twinkles’ best friend and had taught him all his dance routines and show numbers. It was he who put forward Twinks’ name as a suitable short notice stand in.

After putting the phone down I experienced a conflict of emotions, pleasure for Twinkles, because this was a big thing for him. He’s been hankering and pestering to be given an ‘official’ chance on stage for long as I’ve known him, but Cherie and her backing girls haven’t been forthcoming. Amateur drag queens, like any artistes, guard their positions jealously. They don’t like the thought of anyone grabbing their limelight. They’d go on stage even if they had smallpox to prevent anyone else getting a look in. I also experienced some trepidation, which you’d appreciate if you knew Twinks as well as I do. I know what he’s like when he gets carried away with something. Tears and tantrums are likely to follow, along with grandiose plans that have no basis in reality. Still, it was good to hear the happy excitement in his voice. I went out at lunchtime and after ordering a get-well bouquet for Lulu asked the florist to make up an old fashioned corsage of pink orchids and white roses. Twinkles loves those old Hollywood films where the romantic heroine gets presented with a floral corsage shortly before being taken to the ball. I also popped into Debenhams where they had a sale on, and bought him the peach satin, diamante trimmed, Janet Reger bra and matching thong he’d been admiring for a while. When my boy dresses up there are no half measures, he does it properly from underwear to makeup.

 

It being New Year’s Eve most businesses were closing up earlier than usual, including my office and Twinkles’ shop. I was therefore rather annoyed when I turned up to collect him only to find he’d cried off even earlier, claiming a migraine and had taken a taxi home. Migraine my backside, the little fibber! He’d have been itching to get home and start getting ready for his big moment at the PP. See what I mean about excitement getting the better of him? I geared up to have a few stern words with him, letting me go to pick him up indeed. However, the house was quiet and in darkness when I got home. I was surprised and a bit worried. He’d left work early enough, he should have been home. He was.

Turning on the sitting room light I discovered him curled up on the couch, his face bearing evidence of some heavy crying. He had red swollen eyelids, a red tipped nose and mascara streaking his cheeks. All my disapproval forgotten I knelt down on the floor, reaching my arms around him. He clung to me, telling me in tragically whispered gulps and sobs what ailed him. It didn’t fit. Lulu’s costume didn’t fit him. Brian had dropped it off, telling him he had to be dressed and ready to go through a quick rehearsal with the other girls at the PP at eight on Cherie’s strict orders. The bathroom scales had obviously lied. He’d put on more than two pounds, he must have, because the red sequinned, split to the thigh sheath dress just wouldn’t zip up, not even when he put his firmest girdle on. He was a fat failure and his life in frocks was over.

I cuddled and comforted, while wracking my brains to find a way of salvaging the situation for my baby. Leaving him steeping in a hot scented bubble bath with two rounds of sliced cucumber cooling and soothing his sore eyes, I took a deep breath and phoned my mother. We had a bit of a falling out at Christmas when Twinkles insulted her new curtains, saying they looked like something you’d find in a cheap seaside boarding house. They had a right old row, too much wine and rich food just doesn’t bring out their best sides. Despite my profuse apologies, she’d taken real offence and hadn’t spoken to us since, leaving the answer phone on to field calls and not returning any of mine. When my mother takes the huff she does it properly. As expected, I got the answer phone again. I told it all about Twinkles’ situation and was just on the verge of hanging up, when to my relief mum herself came on, enquiring as to the colour of the dress so she could bring the right shade of thread with her sewing machine.

By the time Twinkles was fully made up and wigged, mum had come up trumps with the dress, unpicking and letting out the seams before re-stitching them. It fitted perfectly and he looked divine in it. Swinging mum off her feet he finally apologised for his rudeness at Christmas, told her he loved her and invited her to join us at the club. She gracefully accepted and asked to borrow one of his frocks. She’s never had a problem with his transvestism, she jokes that it makes us seem more like a normal straight couple. In fact she introduces him to people as her daughter in law. Brian has picked up Twinkles to take him to the PP for the rehearsal and mum and I will go down a bit later.

 

 

1st January 2005:

 

Happy New Year

 

Happy New Year! 2005 lays…lies…whatever…full steam ahead. As I write Twinkles is still abed. He reckons he’s dying and keeps demanding I call a member of the medical profession. I keep telling him that no doctor on earth is going to come out on New Years Day to treat a man with a self-inflicted hangover. He took time out from dying to glare at me over the top of his black satin eye mask and call me a heartless beast. I left a large glass of water and two paracetamol on his bedside table, with instructions to wash the latter down with the former. I suspect that he’s exaggerating about how bad he feels, so he can stay safely in bed and put off the discussion I’ve promised we’re going to have with regard to certain goings on last night.

It all started so well. Twinkles was very excited about what he termed his ‘first real showbiz break,’ and couldn’t wait to get on stage in front of his audience. I noted his possessive claim on the assembled crowd with slight disquiet and warned him not to get too carried away with inflated notions of stardom. He nodded impatiently, while mumbling something about stripy leg warmers and auditions for Fame, which was beginning a new nationwide theatre tour. He wouldn’t allow me to give him a kiss for luck before he went on, fearful lest he got an erection that would jeopardise his careful tucking.

Actually, when his turn to take the floor arrived I thought he was going to get stage fright, poor lamb. He looked terrified, but as soon as the music started up he was fine. In fact he got a bit over confident at one point, not to mention cocky and began improvising on the dance routine he was supposed to be doing in the background with the rest of the chorus line. He ended up cutting in front of the leading lady, Cherie Pie, just as she was going for a high note in her rendition of, ‘It’s Raining Men.’ Cherie, understandably, wasn’t pleased. Flicking open her large feather fan she had a discreet word with Twinkles. Unfortunately the microphone relayed the discreet word to every nook and cranny of the PP club. I say word; it was actually two words, the first beginning with F. As mum said, rather primly, it was no language for a lady, not even a lady who worked as a brickie on a building site by day. She kept giving Cherie dirty looks after that and at the end of the number made a point of only applauding Twinks and his fellow backing artistes. My mother is one of those people who are fiercely loyal to family and Twinkles regardless of the fact that he frequently rubs her up the wrong way, is family. If Cherie weren’t careful she’d end up with mum’s handbag ringing in the New Year around her ears.

Twinks was as high as a kite when he came off stage. He was still wearing his costume and had pinned my corsage of orchids and roses onto one of the straps. Every inch the Hollywood Starlet he weaved in and out of the crowd, positively sparkling, greeting friends with theatrical screeches, demanding praise for his performance, doling out hugs and kisses, offering autographs and flirting with absolutely everyone in sight. I didn’t mind. I enjoy seeing him happy and I knew the only person taking him home would be me. Midnight came and went. Mum left for home shortly after seeing in the New Year with us. She got a lift from Priscilla the Preacher, a straight cross dresser so called because he teaches Religious Studies at one of the local Catholic colleges.

I was chatting with friends when I suddenly noticed that Twinks was getting rather unsteady on his high heels, in fact not rather, but very. I hurried across to him just in time to prevent him crashing to the ground as he caught his heel in the hem of his gown. I was cross. I’d kept an eye on how much he was drinking, firmly telling him to make his sixth glass of Champagne his absolute last. He’d obviously been quaffing on the sly. I sat him down at a table before he fell down and told him to stay put while I found a quiet place from which to try and summon the cab I’d pre-booked a little earlier than arranged.

I was gone less than ten minutes, stepping outside in the fresh air to use my cell phone. I’d just finished the call when Brian, breathless and wild eyed, shot out of the door and told me to get back inside pronto because Twinkles was involved in a row and it was getting ugly.

I arrived on scene to find Twinkles holding his rival Natalie, the one who had told him he was getting fat, in a headlock, while screeching a torrent of invective. Tearing at Natalie’s curly blond wig, he ripped it off and hurled it across the dance floor to the cheers of the patrons who were enjoying the spectacle. Natalie retaliated by raking her false nails down Twinkles’ leg, badly laddering his tights. Blood spillage seemed imminent. Brian grabbed a screeching Natalie and hustled her off and I grabbed Twinkles, restraining him. Thankfully we didn’t have to wait too long before the taxi showed up. Much to the driver’s amusement Twinkles fell asleep, snoring the whole way home. I had to carry him indoors, undress him, and remove his wig, false eyelashes and makeup before putting him to bed. He would never have forgiven me if I’d let him go to sleep with makeup still on his face, like some cheap slut. No doubt I’ll find out in due course what sparked the fight between him and Natalie, not that it takes much. Life with Twinkles is a lot of things, but no one can ever say it’s dull.

 

 

2nd January 2005:

 

Rustlings In The Night

 

Strange rustlings woke me at four this morning. I feared that mice had invaded the bedroom. Then I realised the sounds were coming from Twinkles side of the bed. I lay for a few moments enjoying the sheer silliness of him trying to eat sweets in the dark while trying not to wake me up. He’d reach very carefully under the bed, pick one out of the tin he had stashed there, and then very, very slowly unwrap it before putting it in his mouth and trying to chew it silently, which is very difficult with a toffee. In his efforts to authenticate how ill he felt yesterday he’d stayed in bed for the duration, refusing to eat anything except the odd slice of dry toast. Hunger had obviously gotten the better of him.

I craftily waited until he reached for the next sweet before suddenly snapping the bedside lamp on. He got such a fright that he almost fell out of bed. He tried to claim that he’d been sleep-eating and knew nothing about it and that I could have killed him by switching the light on like that, sadistic bastard that I was. I sadistically confiscated the sweets.

He finally dragged himself out of bed at half past eight, coming down into the kitchen, yawning and scratching his balls in his usual morning fashion. Seating himself at the table he gave me a sour look as I poured him a cup of tea from the Clarice Cliff teapot he’d bought me for Christmas. ‘You’re not supposed to use that,’ he said, ‘it’s a decorative collectors item’ (Twinkles likes me to collect things and the teapot indicated exactly what he’d like me to collect over the coming year) It’s a teapot I said reasonably, you make tea in it. Raising his right buttock from the chair he delicately farted by way of reply. Considering he spends a proportion of his life parading around in feminine attire, none of the fairer sexes more refined sensibilities seem to have rubbed off on his base male side. Though as he said, it was a fallacy that women didn’t fart, they were just much more cunning about it. He also claimed I scratched my tackle and exuded wind just as often as he did, but I’m sure I don’t, or if I do, I do it with a modicum more grace and discretion.

I reminded him we had some issues that needed discussing, including him crying off work early and subsequently reducing the bathroom scales, expensive ones, to a heap of nuts, bolts and springs on New Year’s Eve. We duly discussed. He admitted he shouldn’t have skived off work leaving the rest of the staff short handed on a busy day and yes he could and should have called me and stopped me making an unnecessary journey. He admitted that bouncing the bathroom scales across the landing in a rage had been childishly destructive, and yes he’d gone on drinking long after I’d told him to stop, but it wasn’t every night you got your big break into show business and it deserved to be celebrated. Plus it had been New Year’s Eve and everyone knows it’s bad luck not to get drunk on New Year’s Eve.

Then we moved onto the debacle with his Jenny come lately rival, Natalie, queen of the peroxide wigs. Twinkles admitted that maybe, just maybe, he might have triggered the row that led to the fight when he overheard Natalie bragging that she had scored a date for later and he had made the comment: ‘who with, Bobby Palm and his five brothers,’ while making illustrative hand gestures. Natalie had rounded on him, saying it was fortunate that Twinks had found someone who had a kink for chubby little queens with no taste in clothes. She had then poked a disparaging finger at his corsage saying it looked like something that a member of the Women’s Institute would wear to a funeral. Well, nobody pokes Twinkles’ orchids and gets away with it. He told Natalie that her wig looked like something Dolly Parton reserved for cleaning the car with. Natalie had then snatched his corsage off and stamped on it, so Twinkles reckoned honour demanded he do the same to her wig. Honour also seemed to demand that he puncture one of her expensive silicone breasts with his teeth. I suggested that perhaps it might be a good idea if he made an effort to bury the rivalry between him and Natalie. He said the only thing he’d like to bury was Natalie, preferably with a wooden stake through her heart. I told him that he could replace our bathroom scales and Natalie’s left tit at his own expense.

We were supposed to be going over to Brian and Steven’s place for dinner this evening to celebrate Steven’s birthday, but Brian apologetically called to say that the cold Steve had caught at Christmas seemed to be settling on his chest and he wasn’t feeling too well. I told Brian not to worry and sent Stevie our love and get well soon wishes.

 

 

3rd January 2005:

 

Arachnophobia

 

This year’s festive period seems to have gone on forever. It’s always the same when Christmas falls on a weekend. Today is yet another Bank Holiday. I’ll be glad when it’s all finally over and we can get back into something resembling a normal routine again.

I got a heck of a fright this morning. I was downstairs in the kitchen in the process of making some tea when the most terrible screams came from upstairs, accompanied by footsteps galloping up and down the landing in frenzied panic. I dashed upstairs, my heart pounding, wondering what the hell was going on. Twinkles, wild eyed and naked, leapt into my arms, tightly wrapping his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist, babbling about being attacked, while pointing at his second favourite dressing gown, which lay abandoned on the landing. I was puzzled. I know it has a fur trim around it, but it’s fake and I truly couldn’t see it attacking him.

It turned out that when he finally got his arse out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to begin his morning ablutions, he’d discovered one of his false eyelashes perched on the bar of soap on the sink. It’s a frequent occurrence, you get used to finding his eyelashes all over the place. I found one in the milk jug once. Anyway, he reached out to retrieve it, only as he did so it uncurled itself and turned into a monster spider. As soon as he touched it, it leapt straight up the sleeve of his dressing gown, scurrying up his arm. He hates spiders, he really does. I must admit when I picked up his dressing gown and saw it; I didn’t blame him for screaming. I wouldn’t have been too keen to have it running amuck over my skin. It was one of those great big ugly garden spiders, the type that hunts and jumps on its prey. I released it back into the wild suppressing several unmanly shudders as I did so. He’s still upset, he’s lying on the couch in the sitting room with a cold compress on his forehead. To cheer him up, I’ve promised to give him a foot massage and paint his toenails this afternoon. There’s a charity do on at the PP this evening and he wants to wear some gold open toed sandals and thus his feet must look their glamorous best.

 

 

5th January 2005:

 

What’s Troubling Twinkles?

 

I’m worried about Twinkles. He’s barely spoken a word since I picked him up from the shop this evening. At first I thought he was in a strop with me because I was almost fifteen minutes late. I got held up in traffic and he has absolutely no patience. He hates waiting around, especially when it’s cold and damp like today. He claims it makes the feathers in his boa go frizzy. He sat silently through dinner, poking his pasta around his plate until it congealed and wasn’t worth eating. I demanded to know what was troubling him, to which he replied nothing. I said there was obviously something wrong, because he’d barely spoken two words since we’d got home and he had a face on him like the chief mourner at a funeral. At which point his temper flared. Accusing me of always bloody nagging he swiped his plate of rubberised pasta off the table and then stormed out of the kitchen. He’s upstairs resting now. I deemed bed to be the best place for him if he were feeling inclined to be volatile. I can see that something has upset him, but I’m not prepared to play sitting duck to his temper all evening. I’ve also told him that I’m not prepared to play a round of guess what’s bothering Twinkles and he can have a few hours brooding space if that’s what he needs, but then whether he likes it or not, he’s going to talk about what’s ailing him. He might appear an all out extrovert and heart on his sleeve type, but I know he has a reclusive corner to his personality, a place where he hoards certain things and frets over them. It isn’t good for him, or me. I know he was a bit upset when Lulu’s sprained ankle didn’t turn out to be as bad as first thought, which sounds awful, but let’s face it we all think selfish thoughts sometimes. He didn’t want Lulu permanently maimed, just out of action for a while longer, but it was not to be. As a result his break into showbiz, via the stage at the PP, has thus proven to be a little short lived. Lu had pipped him to the post for the original position as PP chorus girl and now he had cut short his role as understudy and stand in. We’d had the full tears, tantrums, and life is a bitch and so is Lulu, routine. It was aired and over with. This is something quite different.

 

 

7th January 2005:

 

Funeral, What Funeral?

 

Taking a break from the office I had a saunter through Debenhams on my lunch hour today and noticed that some Elizabeth Arden makeup products were on 50% off. Rummaging somewhat self-consciously through the bargain basket I was lucky to find two of Twinkles favourite Arden products: pure black defining mascara, which he wears during the day as it darkens and emphasises his own lashes without looking too obvious, and black volume building mascara which he uses to make his false lashes look even more lush. No matter whom you live with, if you really love them you have to show an interest in what interests them, otherwise you end up living with only ‘half’ a person and that’s not good for either partner. You have to appreciate and love the whole person, even the bits that might initially make you uncomfortable because they’re outside your personal sphere of known experiences. No one said relationships had to be easy. In Twinkles’ case it means I have to keep in touch with his feminine aspect and also the things that go with it. I bought two of each type of mascara, at half price they weren’t to be missed. He gets through it by the gallon and he doesn’t like the cheap stuff. Sadly, none of the lipsticks were in shades he liked, though I did buy some cheek colour that had a little bit of sparkle in it. Twinks likes a little bit of sparkle.

The two girls behind the counter irritated me. For a start, they could have challenged a once a year Halloween drag queen to a tacky makeup contest, and won. They stood rudely whispering and giggling the whole time I was looking through the basket and when I paid for the stuff one of them gave me a smug smile and said, ‘I’m sure your wife will love those.’ I smiled politely back and said, thank you, I’m sure he will and then I asked if the store stocked WoMan sheer toe to waist nylons in sizes to fit men over six feet tall, as he’d laddered his last pair and was planning to go out this evening in a mini skirt. Twinkles is actually a rather petite five foot seven, so he doesn’t really have that much of a problem getting stockings and tights to fit him, but the exaggeration was worth it to see the look on her face. The day that Debenhams openly sell tights, stockings and lingerie for the transgender community is the day I’ll know that equality has finally arrived.

I presented Twinkles with the makeup as soon as I picked him up from work. Usually he adores getting presents especially unexpected presents, but there was no elaborate shriek of pleasure when he opened the bag and looked inside. He smiled his thanks and leaned across to kiss me, but then sat quietly gazing out of the car window all the way home.

News of his father’s death seems to have sucked all the sparkle and colour out of him. The way he’d found out was horrible. When he told me what had happened I was so angry. Some friend of the Lane family had taken it upon themselves to mount a moral crusade. Going into Twinkles’ place of work she had loudly berated him for not having had the decency to attend the funeral of the father he’d apparently helped to put in an early grave with his depraved lifestyle. Seeing as his family didn’t have the decency to inform him that his father was ill, let alone that he’d died, it was a bit hard to take.

I asked why he hadn’t called me and why he hadn’t asked to leave work early in the circumstances and he shrugged and said because the circumstances didn’t warrant that kind of respect. Since then he’s said very little about the subject. In fact he’s said very little about anything. Part of me wants to sit him down and demand that he talk to me about his feelings, but I’m not sure that’s the approach needed just now. He’s undoubtedly upset, but I’m not certain what form it takes, or exactly what it’s composed of. I suspect that Twinkles himself is also uncertain about it and needs time to evaluate what must be a hodgepodge of conflicting emotions.

 

 

8th January 2005:

 

Cathartic Street Theatre

 

Even before I opened my eyes this morning I intuitively sensed that something wasn’t quite right. For a start Twinkles was up without any coercion from me, which in itself was disquieting. I could hear him moving around. Even more disquieting was the fact that I couldn’t bring my right arm forward, mainly because it appeared to be tied to the bedpost. I opened my eyes to find him standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, fully dressed. I re-closed my eyes, held them shut for a few seconds and then reopened them, but he was still standing in front of the wardrobe mirror fully dressed and I mean FULLY DRESSED. Furthermore I was still cuffed to the bedpost with one of the leather and chain restraints that we use to spice up our sex life from time to time; only it isn’t usually me wearing them.

I politely demanded to know what the fuck was going on, a request that was met with silence as he concentrated on getting his lipstick right. Incidentally, I have to report that he looked amazing; sort of gothic Vivienne Westwood meets Phantom Of The Opera. He was wearing a scarlet and black dress, one that mum had helped him make for the PP’s Hallow-Queen Ball last year. It was straight and short at the front, revealing black lacy stocking tops and red frilly suspenders, while cascading in tiers of ruffles to his ankles at the back. It was pulled in tight at the waist with laces and cut low on the breast, revealing a very convincing cleavage, he uses a combination of silicone push-ups inside his bra and clever makeup to create the illusion, and he does it very well. He was also wearing a gothic style wig of tumbling black curls and his makeup was incredible. He’d painted a reddish bronze mask around his eyes and stuck glitter and jewels around its edges, which gave the effect of one of those Venetian ball masks. He must have been up for hours.

I spoke to him calmly, even though I felt far from calm, having a very sudden sick suspicion about what his intentions were. I told him he looked wonderful, but he really couldn’t turn up for work dressed so flamboyantly. Capping his lipstick he turned from the mirror and bluntly told me he wasn’t going to work and not to fret, Tarn darling, he’d already let Don, his boss, know. He then confirmed my suspicions. He was going to pay his respects to his dear bereaved family. Very sorry though he was to have taken such drastic action he wasn’t going to un-cuff me, because I’d stop him and he didn’t want to be stopped.

I don’t often call him by his real name and he knows when I do we’re in serious territory. I told Jonathan he was not to leave the house and he was to un-cuff my wrist immediately or there would be repercussions. He stood for a few moments, as if deliberating then shook his head, said ta-ta and walked out of the room. Fury surged through me, not so much at what he’d done to me, but at the circumstances that had triggered it. I was scared for him. He was in no state for a confrontation with his acidic mother and sisters, or more to the point, with that vicious old bastard, his grandfather. The man would verbally crucify him. Quickly swinging my legs out of bed I stood up. Bracing one bare foot against the headboard I grabbed the chain connecting me to it and pulled with all my might. The restraint didn’t give, but with a splintering of wood the bedpost did.

We must have looked like a scene from Little Britain. There was he in his fancy get up and spiky heels, racing down the garden path towards the car parked on the street. I was in hot pursuit, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and handcuffed to a lump of wood. I grabbed his wrist to stop him opening the car door and he went for me, viciously lashing at me with his handbag. It was one of those heavily beaded affairs and it was like being battered with a medieval mace. I finally got under his defences and heaved him over my shoulder in a fireman’s lift holding his ankles to stop his furiously kicking heels from taking my eye out. They can be lethal weapons can stilettos. I carried him back to the house before his screeches alerted the neighbours that street theatre was taking place and resulted in an audience.

Slamming the front door behind us I pulled off his shoes and hurled them down the hall out of harms way before setting him back on his feet. He had another go at me with his feminine flail. Anchoring him firmly against my side with my left arm I wrestled the handbag from him, tipping the contents onto the hall table and rummaging around until I found the key to the cuff. He made a break for it as I released myself from the remains of the bedpost. I caught him before he could open the front door again, hustling him, kicking and screeching, into the sitting room. Dragging off his wig, because its hard to cuddle someone with really big hair, I sat on the couch and pulled him onto my lap holding him hard against me to try and stop him lashing out. He was hysterical, yelling and swearing, trying to twist loose. He managed to free a hand and rake his fingernails down my face breaking the skin. It stung like hell and my eyes watered harder still as he then tried to separate my hair from my scalp.

Enough was enough. I had to act. Swiftly turning him over my lap I flipped up his dress pulled down his knickers and began smacking his bottom hard. He struggled, trying to reach a hand behind to block mine while shrieking a torrent of abuse. I told him he was being spanked for disobeying my order not to leave the house, for trying to drive when he was legally banned from driving (now there’s a tale and a half) and also for scratching me and pulling my hair. I also made clear that if he ever bloody well handcuffed me to anything without my permission again, he’d be one very sorry man, at which point he burst into a storm of tears. I immediately turned him right side up and held him. The spanking was cathartic, a much needed gateway to his grief. He clung to me sobbing out the mixture of emotions that were tumbling around inside him; sorrow tinged with bitterness for his father and hurt, confusion and anger at the way his family had treated him. Once he’d calmed down I helped him to disrobe and clean off his war paint and then we went back to bed for a while so I could comfort him properly.

 

 

9th January 2005:

 

Stardust Twinkles Is Dead

 

I think we’ll have to have a new headboard for the bed. I tried fixing it back together with wood glue, but it doesn’t look very attractive and it certainly won’t stand up to being banged against during the throes of passion. I suppose I ought to be grateful that he didn’t decide to secure me by both wrists and both ankles and stick a ball gag in my mouth. I’d still be there while he languished in prison or in a psychiatric unit awaiting assessment for harassment and driving under the influence of heavy makeup while banned.

I didn’t let him out of my sight yesterday. I also unplugged the phone, partly to stop him calling his mother and partly to stop all the calls I knew would come asking why Twinkles had been missing from the Pink Parrot on Friday night. Friday is a big night, it’s the start of the drag weekend and Twinkles never misses, not if he can help it. He’d just been too upset this time.

We talked things over. He said he hadn’t told me what he was planning to do because he knew I’d forbid it. I’d give all the right reasons as to why it was a shit idea, and he didn’t want the right reasons and besides, he knew them anyway. All he’d wanted to do was to hit back at his family in a way guaranteed to cause them maximum upset and embarrassment-by confronting them as the thing they despised so much. He’d wanted to try and force them to acknowledge him. My heart ached for him. I was at a loss as how best to help him. I could telephone his mother and ask for details about what had happened to his father, but I knew she’d hang up the moment I said who I was. Besides, I had no real desire to talk to a woman who could disown her son so completely, nor had I any desire to speak with her father, the family patriarch who had imposed his savage view of how the world should be upon them all. I’d had one confrontation with him and frankly it was enough. The man repelled me. Instead, while Twinkles was having a nap, I phoned Lulu and asked if he’d do me a favour by going to the library and going through the back copies of the local district newspapers to see if a notice of death had been posted for a Richard Lane.

Lu came up trumps. Twinkles’ father had died the weekend before Christmas after a short illness. The notice stated that he’d left a wife and two daughters, but no mention was made of a son. I grew hot with anger at this cruel snub. It was something I’d have to try and keep from him. He’d been hurt enough. The funeral had taken place on the 21st December, a church service followed by burial. That was something anyway. We could find the grave and at least then Twinkles could pay his respects. Rituals are important, no matter what faith you claim or don’t claim.

We spent the remainder of Saturday quietly cuddled in front of the television watching old videos, including ‘Priscilla Queen Of The Desert,’ and ‘To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar.’ At the appropriate moment in the latter film I took Twinks hand and quoted his favourite line to him just as Carol Ann said it to Vida Boheme, ‘I don’t think of you as a man and I don’t think of you as a woman. I think of you as an angel.’ Twinkles once read an elaborate and lavish review of the film that described the leads, three drag queens, as celestial messengers who transcend individual differences in a quest for a shared humanity. It was a notion he adored and took on board wholesale. Personally I thought it was something of a grandiose concept for a comedy film featuring Wesley Snipes and Patrick Swayze in drag, not that I said so of course. He wondered if sending his grandfather and mother copies of the films might change the way they viewed him. I said that sadly, some people would never be able to see beyond their own rigid ideas of acceptable normality. He set off crying again, saying that the only ideas of normality his mother had ever had were the ones imposed on her by her vile father. Why hadn’t that old bastard been the one to die? There are some questions that just can’t be answered.

 

We went to the cemetery this morning. It took a while, but we did manage to locate the grave. There’s no headstone as yet, just the simple plot marker cross bearing a name and dates. Most of the tributes on the grave were withered and worn ragged by winter wind and rain. Twinkles gathered them up and binned them before placing the spray of fresh flowers he’d bought on top of the raw burial mound. He then knelt down, heedless of the damp earth. He knelt for a long time, not moving, not speaking and not crying. The rain came, light at first, then heavier, pattering musically against the cellophane wrapped flowers and still he knelt with bowed head. I was soaked to the skin and frozen so I had no doubt that he was. I decided that he’d had enough and gently told him it was time to go, and that’s when he started to cry. It was awful. He said it was bad enough his father dying without ever saying he was proud of him, but what hurt most was knowing that even if he’d lived, he would never have said it anyway. He hadn’t been proud of him. He had been ashamed, embarrassed and disgusted to have a son like him. I almost cried then, not because I believed what he was saying was true, but simply because Twinkles thought it was and seeing him hurting so much was unbearable.

When we got home I insisted that we got out of our wet clothes and into a hot shower. As I washed his hair and body he started to cry again and I wrapped my arms about him holding him, as the hot water cascaded over us. Afterwards, I left him in bed while I went down to the kitchen to make us some tea. By the time I returned he was no longer in bed, but it wasn’t empty. It was piled high with all his dresses, shoes, and lingerie, everything in fact that transformed him from Jonathan Lane into Stardust Twinkles. I asked what he was doing and he said he was having a clean out and getting rid of the trash from his life. Stardust Twinkles was dead. From now on he was plain Jonathan Lane.

 

 

January 10th 2005:

 

Real Homo’s Don’t Wear Frocks

 

I didn’t sleep much last night. Twinkles lay snoring by my side, not so much asleep as borderline unconscious. He’d downed the best part of a bottle of Vodka under the guise of drinking orange juice, a fact I only cottoned onto when he tried to get up to go to the toilet and promptly keeled over, taking the kitchen chair he’d been sitting on with him. I would have swatted him if I thought he could feel it, but he was so drunk I doubt he’d have felt me extract his teeth never mind swat his backside. After helping him up to the bathroom and hearing him barf a symphony of regret into the loo I put him to bed. At three a.m. conceding that sleep had evaded me I got up and went downstairs. I intended to make a cup of tea, but ended up sitting on the couch nursing a generous shot of Glenomrangie while sorting through the thoughts crowding my mind, as you do at that hour of the morning.

I had pleaded with him to put everything back in the wardrobe saying that now wasn’t the time to be making sweeping decisions about anything, let alone about something as fundamental as self-identity. He refused to listen to me, carrying on with the task of emptying his closet and shoving clothes and accessories into plastic bags. Afterwards he shut himself in the kitchen saying he was going to put in an hours work on the gemstone diploma he’s studying for. I kept looking in on him to make sure he was alright, fondly believing that the orange juice he was drinking was just, well, orange juice.

 

Whatever way you look at it, Twinkles or Jonathan, and I, are not quite your average householders. We’re a homosexual couple, one half of whom is a cross-dresser, which in itself classifies us as a subgroup within a subgroup and as such means we’ve frequently found ourselves facing hostility not just from heterosexual sources, but from other homosexuals who along with their straight brethren view any transgressions in gender-appropriate behaviour and image as deviant…so much for gay solidarity. Add to that the fact our relationship also incorporates consensual discipline elements, and what you have is a couple who belong to a subgroup within a subgroup within a subgroup. I also quite like to nibble Twinkles’ toes from time to time, which probably classifies us a subgroup too far. Not that I care. I’ve got a toe fetish, so what. I’d never nibble anyone’s toes without their consent, not that I’d want to nibble anyone else’s toes anyway. He has nice toes and attractive feet. He looks after them, not like some men I’ve slept with in the past who had rasps for feet and fungus farms for toes. It’s very un-sexy to be awoken on a morning by someone grating the hair and skin off your lower limbs with the hard skin on their feet.

I don’t give a dam about not being average, whatever average means. I’m not even certain that average really exists except possibly in the minds of Statisticians. Scratch the surface of your average straight businessman and chances are you’ll find a bloke who likes to encase his prick in ladies knickers, so much for average. Basically, I’m a man with an imposed funny name who loves another man who just happens to have an alter ego called Stardust Twinkles. I don’t and I won’t pretend to fully understand the impetus that drives him to want to wear feminine attire, same as I don’t understand the impetus that drives an average businessman to want to wear ladies underwear under his suit, or wear his wife’s clothing when she’s out at the shops.

How many of us can honestly say we understand the forces that drive us? We are who we are. Only, as I sat there in the early hours sipping whisky, I realised that Jonathan Lane was trying to kill off a part of who he was, not because he really wanted to but because he felt he had to. Maybe a part of me ought to have been relieved. It isn’t always comfortable or easy being partner to a transvestite, not least because of the amount of wardrobe space they demand, but I wasn’t relieved. The persona of Stardust Twinkles was an aspect of the person I love in their entirety and she now lay shrouded in plastic bags stacked along the landing. It was a death I was not prepared to accept. Setting my drink aside I went back upstairs and began to unpack the bags, re-hanging the dresses, jackets etc and returning them to the wardrobe.

 

 

11th January 2005:

 

Multi-Facets

 

Twinkles’ boss gave him a few days compassionate leave, which was just as well because not surprisingly Twinkles was not at his best when he woke up on Monday morning. He spent some long moments begging God to allow him to die before staggering to the bathroom and noisily heaving his guts up into the toilet bowl. He then staggered back to bed where he laid whimpering pitiably and exhorting God to allow him to live, that’s my boy…contrary. Of course it was my entire fault. I should have stopped him. What kind of incompetent Top (another term for Dominant, he tends to alternate between the two depending on mood) let his partner drink that much? I gave him a couple of painkillers, made him drink several large glasses of water and told him we’d apportion blame when he was feeling better. I called my office and asked my secretary to fax me some stuff over so that I could work from home. I didn’t want to leave Twinkles alone all day not in the unsettled mood he was in.

I heard him moving around in the middle of the afternoon and went up to ask if he could face some tea and toast. He was in process of taking all his frocks out of the wardrobe once again. I asked whether he was truly that determined to give up being Stardust Twinkles and he said yes. I then asked what the next step was going to be? Was he going to put himself in the space left vacant by the clothes, was he going to re-closet himself, deny that he was gay, maybe even put me out with his frocks? He began to cry and I gathered him into my arms telling him that he couldn’t just throw away an aspect of himself, especially not in order to appease the dead, because death was an appeasement in itself and one that required no further sacrifice from the living. I talked automatically letting words tumble from my mouth in the hope that they would form sentences that made some kind of sense for him. I said that I knew he had loved his dad, in between hating him, and that I was also sure his dad had loved him, in between not being able to understand him, and of being frightened of the unique child he’d sired. I also told him I loved him, all of him whether in male or female guise.

We’re all multifaceted, but sadly the majority of us don’t have the courage to show more than one surface for fear of disapproval. Jonathan Lane, aka, Stardust Twinkles, is a person of great courage because, despite the obstacles, he dares to show more than one aspect of his personality. He challenges the so-called norms of society and in my eyes wins every time.

 

 

12th January 2005:

 

Lady Stardust Is Back In Town

 

I had to go into the office on Tuesday. I had a meeting, though I was loath to leave Twinkles who was still very down and unnaturally quiet. He insisted that he was fine and that he wouldn’t do anything silly or rash like listening to classical radio three while sharpening a carving knife.

He phoned me at lunchtime and I was pleased to hear a touch of excited pleasure in his voice, as he told me that a huge basket of flowers had just arrived for him. It was from all the girls and boys at the Pink Parrot who were sorry to hear about his bereavement and had missed him over the weekend. Even the rat bag Natalie had signed the card.

To my delight I came home from work to find him hoovering the sitting room wearing nothing but a long straight Cher wig and his beloved pink fluffy mules while singing along to the score from Blood Brothers, one of his favourite musicals. In my opinion the role of Mrs Johnstone has never been more originally interpreted, it had real balls and I should know because I felt them. I asked if this meant that Miss Stardust Twinkles was back in town and he said yes, after all it was a lady’s prerogative to change her mind. I was right (makes a nice change) and there was nothing to be gained from trying to be an ideal son for a dead father when he’d never been an ideal son for the living one. He also said that maybe his dad had loved him a little bit, or at least wanted to, because despite all differences and all obstacles he had made an effort to stay in touch, if only from time to time, which is more than his mother had ever done.

Anyway, he held his head high. It wouldn’t be right to deprive the Pink Parrot of his unique glamour, and he couldn’t have that bitch Natalie parading around like cock of the walk, or in her case cock of the frock. I said that wasn’t very kind seeing as Natalie had contributed to the flowers. He snorted and said she’d have done it to prevent the dirt queens dishing it behind her back. I told him that he was very naughty and it was time he made an effort to bury the hatchet, which was the wrong choice of words if I rightly heard what he muttered under his breath as he put the hoover away.

 

The upturn was short lived. I opened the front door this morning to discover that the flowers that Twinkles had laid on his father’s grave had been dumped on our doorstep with the message ‘surplus to requirements’ scrawled across the dedication card. They must have been put there some time the previous evening because there was a touch of frost on the wrapping, but none underneath on the step when I picked them up, so they’d lain for a while. I felt sick with disgust and quickly got rid of them before Twinks could see them. Maybe I was being over protective, but I didn’t want him being upset all over again. He didn’t need or deserve that kind of savage slap in the face. I brooded on it all day at work, which led to me being irascible. My co-workers were probably mightily relieved when it was going home time.

 

 

14th January 2005:

 

A Wife With Balls

 

I confess to being a bit preoccupied on Wednesday night. Despite my stern admonitions my mind insisted on dwelling on the matter of the flowers I’d found on the doorstep. I just couldn’t get my head around the level of sick spite it took to remove a son’s tribute from his father’s grave like that. I’d be willing to bet his grandfather was the initiator, vindictive old bastard that he is. When I met Twinkles he was already estranged from his family, he’d left the family home when he was borderline seventeen. He actually comes from quite well to do stock on his mother’s side and the family home is a fairly impressive pile of Victorian masonry owned and co inhabited by his mother’s father, who also owns a fair proportion of land around the area. There was no doubt that it was he, and not Twinkle’s father, who was head of the household and no one dared have an opinion that didn’t meet and match his in every respect.

Twinkles’ grandfather may not have approved of his grandson nor cared to support him in any way, but he still made it his business to keep tabs on him. Not long after Twinks and I moved in together, he got wind of it and paid us a surprise visit. He stood in our home and in a calm monotone delivered a chilling indictment of our lifestyle. We were deviants of the worst kind, perverts whose very existence contaminated the planet and we’d undoubtedly go to hell. He told us that he would continue to pray that we would see the error of our ways. He wasn’t a big man, not in stature but he was disturbingly compelling, his pale blue eyes radiated a cold malevolence that was almost paralysing in its intensity. His effect on Twinkles was horrifying. I could almost see him diminishing under the gaze of those eyes, flinching as if the words were blows. I hustled the man out of the house as fast as I could, before the urge to deck him became one I couldn’t resist. The encounter left me feeling somehow violated and I had a weird compulsion to wash my hands over and over again. How the hell Twinkles had survived in that household was beyond me, it made me admire his courage all the more.

I suddenly became aware that Twinkles was bustling around the room, plumping up sofa cushions, tidying the magazines and newspapers that lay scattered across the coffee table and arranging them into neat, accusatory little piles that said, you’re not paying me due attention. Making a determined effort, I thrust the flower incident into the trashcan of my mind and asked if he’d like a cup of coffee? He declined with a weighted sigh, saying he wouldn’t want to put me to any trouble. I said it was no trouble at all. I was making myself one. Apparently that was tantamount to accusing him of being unequal to the task of making me a decent cup of coffee. His coffee obviously wasn’t good enough for me. I refuted the accusation and said he could make the coffee if he wanted to. He didn’t want to. If I wanted coffee, I could make my own bloody coffee, he wasn’t there purely to serve my needs. I asked him if he was all right? He said he was fine, fine, absolutely spiffing in fact.

I made the coffee, two cups, in case he changed his mind and decided to join me. Setting the tray on the coffee table I sat back down and smiled at him, receiving a frosty look in return. I reached for a magazine to read while I drank my coffee, regretting it immediately as he made a point of re-tidying the pile with a look of long suffering on his face. Detecting a whiff of burning martyr I put my cup down and asked what was bothering him? There was nothing bothering him, why would there be anything bothering him, what could possibly be bothering him…apart from the fact that I hadn’t complimented him on dinner, not that he was bothered. He was getting used to being taken for granted. Seeing as dinner had been a Chinese takeaway and all he’d done was set the table and put out plates, I found that rather an unfair criticism, particularly as I’d washed up afterwards. Nonetheless, I apologised for not having complimented him on ordering a very nice Chinese takeaway.

Silence reigned for a few minutes, but not a peaceful silence, it was a seeking silence. He suddenly announced that he was sorry for being a nuisance over the past few days. He really hadn’t meant to be a nuisance. I told him he had been no such thing and pulled, or tried to pull him onto my lap for a cuddle. He pulled away from me jolting the coffee table in the process and upsetting the coffee cups. Fortunately the metal tray contained the spill, so no harm was done, except it was the opportunity he’d been seeking to make a lateral move into self-pity and self-condemnation. Yes, he WAS a nuisance, he had always been a nuisance, his clumsiness with the coffee proved it and it was no wonder that his family hated him and now I hated him. I was hardly speaking to him. I’d ignored him all evening and then cast doubts on his ability to make coffee. I hadn’t complimented him on dinner all of which was a sure sign of my waning interest, and to think he’d given me the best years of his life, his green and tender years. He was going out to be with people who appreciated him.

I caught him before he could flounce out of the sitting room telling him that if he wanted my attention all he had to do was ask for it, there was no need to produce a three act drama. Though in appreciation of his efforts I gave him a short round of applause across the seat of his trousers. Then I apologised for being preoccupied, claiming tiredness, which was true. I was mentally tired having spent so much energy dwelling on something that I couldn’t share with Twinkles because it would hurt him too much. He forgave me instantly and insisted on giving me a back massage. I love his massages. He has magic fingers and his tongue can cast a spell or two as well.

We ended up having sex, not huge, mind-blowing sex, but small comforting sex. We cuddled afterwards. I like that almost as much as the sex itself, it’s the affirmation that we have something more than just a quick high and an exchange of body fluids. There was one point in my life while sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, a bed I’d recently had sex in with a man whose name was already fading from my memory, when I wondered if the hello/fuck/goodbye cycle was all that life had to offer me as a gay man. Not that I’m saying there’s anything wrong with that kind of lifestyle. Hello/fuck/goodbye suits some men just fine, but not me. I’d gone beyond it. I wanted more. I wanted commitment, cuddles after sex, someone who was there at breakfast, and still there at dinner, someone I could buy flowers for and fuss over. I suppose what I wanted was a wife with balls, what I got was a man in a frock…utter perfection!

 

 

 

16th January 2005:

 

Qweers Live Here

 

Some weekends are destined to be less than restful. In fact some weekends should come with a ‘opt out and wake me up on Monday for work’ button. On Friday morning Brian rang to say that Stevie had been hospitalised with a chest infection, something he’s very prone to. He sounded tired and anxious and I did my best to reassure him that Stevie was in the best place and he’d be fine once he got the right meds. Then Katie, our near neighbour, alerted us to the fact that someone had sprayed ‘Qweers live here,’ in huge letters on the outside of the back garden fence. Twinkles was furious. He didn’t so much mind the obvious being stated, after all, queers do live here, but he at least wished they’d bothered to spell it correctly instead of using the Chav alphabet and unattractive fluorescent green paint (frigging pinkophobes) I was more annoyed that it would cost both time and money to creosote out the lettering. I hate creosoting at the best of times.

We were invited to a party on Friday evening. It was a combined celebration and pity party thrown by our lesbian friends Val and Sandra. The celebration was for their tenth anniversary together and the pity was for Val who had reached the milestone of forty. At one point it looked like their tenth anniversary might well be their last after Sandra plastered the neighbourhood with picture posters of Val that read: ‘look Who’s 40.’ Val almost blew a gasket raging that it was tantamount to standing naked in the street and flagellating herself while screeching her age. It was bad enough actually turning fucking forty and bad enough that friends knew she was fucking forty, without half the local fucking population pointing at her in the street and saying ‘look, there’s that woman who’s forty.’ She threatened to plaster the neighbourhood with posters of Sandra that read: ‘look who lives with a forty year old lesbian.’ Poor Sandra. She hadn’t realised how sensitive Val was to the onerous birthday and argued that Val should have said something. After all she wasn’t psychic and she’d only been trying to make an occasion of it. Val apologised for her outburst and also for not letting Sandra know how she really felt about it. They both had a good cry and then they were all lovey-dovey again.

Twinkles took forever getting ready for the party because he knew Natalie would be there and he wanted to make sure he out-glammed him, or rather her. Now, you may notice some gender confusion on my part when it comes to hims and hers. I’m afraid Twinks gets very cross with me sometimes, because I still frequently say ‘he’ instead of ‘she’ and he says I ought to know that as soon as a transvestite of any kind dons frock and makeup, he becomes she. I have to remember to make the gender switch or it’s an insult. It’s all to do with cross-dressing etiquette. I’m sure he makes a lot of it up as he goes along just to wrong foot me. Anyway, he (and he is always he to me, even when dolled up to the eyes, perhaps because I’m so familiar with what lies under the frocks and believe me he’s all man in that respect, especially once the falsies come off) decided to wear the black glittery dress that he’d bought for New Years Eve, but hadn’t worn because of his stage debut that night.

By the time we arrived the party was in full swing, a deliberate ploy by Twinkles because of course being a dramatist he likes to make a big entrance. There was a fairly eclectic bunch of people present. However, it has to be said that it’s usually the glamour queens who dominate at any gay gathering. They tend to be much more flamboyantly costumed than anyone else and of course everyone looks at them and they love it, playing to the crowd for all they’re worth. Val and Sandra complimented Twinkles on his outfit and Val said that if she didn’t know he had a dick tucked inside his knickers, she could almost fancy him. They were admiring his new sparkly chandelier earrings when who should arrive, even later than us, but Natalie… wearing exactly the same dress as Twinks! There was a moment of stunned silence and then all hell broke loose. They both let out yells of pure rage, each accusing the other of deliberately copying the outfit. Twinkles shrieked that as he’d arrived at the party first, it was up to Natalie to bugger off home and change into something different, and anyway, the truth had to be faced he wore the dress so much better than she did. Sandra poured oil and said they both looked gorgeous and it didn’t matter if they had the same dress, because they both had different accessories.

Natalie’s friend Big Mary exchanged a sympathetic eye roll and grimace with me and then dragged Nat towards the bar to get a drink while I dragged Twinkles to a table as far away from them as possible. I assured Twinkles that yes, he looked better in the frock than Natalie did, yes, his high heel sandals were much more tasteful and glamorous than the court shoes that Natalie had crammed on her dirty great feet. However, when he started to speculate that Natalie, conniving bitch that she was, had probably got her dress cheap, just like her, in the January Sales, I put an embargo on the subject telling him he was not going to spend all evening obsessing over it. I also told him that he was to steer well clear of Natalie, warning that if he caused any kind of trouble and spoiled Sandra and Val’s party I would take him home and spank him until sitting down seemed like a legend his ancestors talked about. He was distinctly sour for the rest of the evening and when he ‘accidentally’ tripped Natalie causing her to sprawl across the dance floor in a very undignified manner, laddering her stockings in the process, I insisted we make our excuses and leave. Once home he found himself sprawled across my knees in an even less dignified manner with his dress around his waist and his knickers around his knees as I made known my disapproval of his spiteful action.

 

As is my habit I went to meet Twinks for lunch on Saturday. He was serving a customer when I entered the shop and didn’t look too pleased about it. I wasn’t surprised as I recognised the customer in question. It was one Leonard Peterson, a man who had recently dated Lulu after meeting him at a gay singles night. Leonard had known Lu only by his birth name of Fred at first and when Fred had ‘come out’ and told him about his alter ego, Lulukalala, Leonard had responded by saying that if he’d wanted to date a woman and fondle tits instead of balls then he’d be straight, and promptly dumped him. Lulu had been devastated. Twinkles was being polite to Leonard, but not really, if you get my drift. He made a big show of inspecting the expensive watch that had been handed over for a battery replacement. Smiling sweetly he commented, ‘aren’t some of these copy watches clever, this almost looks like a real Gucci.’ Leonard had scowled and said ‘that’s because it is.’ Twinkles feigned surprised, saying, ‘it just goes to show that even the best of companies can produce their share of tat. It must be one of their lower end of the market lines.’ After deftly replacing the battery, he carefully put the watch on the little gadget that the shop uses for refitting the backs securely. As he turned the pressure gauge, there was an expression on his face that I can only describe as inscrutable. An ominous crack suddenly sounded and inscrutability was replaced with barely concealed glee. ‘Oh dear’ he said putting a hand to his cheek, ‘silly, clumsy me. I’ve screwed a little too hard and broken your watch glass. I do apologise. We will of course replace the glass absolutely free of charge. Though I’m afraid it will have to be sent away to the manufacturer, but never fear, we’ll lend you a watch to wear until yours is returned to your bosom, or rather your wrist.’ Naturally enough Leonard was not a happy bunny, especially when Twinkles let it be known that his watch could take up to three weeks to be repaired. He was even less happy when the courtesy watch turned out to be a cheap, tatty old Timex with a nasty plastic strap…all they had left to offer, something I very much doubted. He left the shop with the air of a very dissatisfied customer. Twinkles’ grin subsided a little as he caught my eye. I didn’t care for the way Leonard had treated Lulu, but I thought Twinkles’ behaviour was beyond the pale. When challenged he refused to admit that he’d broken the glass on purpose, but I knew he had.

Lunch was a very strained affair because I expressed my disapproval of people who consciously damaged other people’s personal property before dishonestly passing the cost of putting it right to the small company they worked for. I asked him to recall how he’d felt on Friday when he discovered that someone had damaged our property by daubing it with graffiti. He said that was different because we hadn’t deserved it, but Leonard, heartbreaker, Peterson had. I asked if that amounted to a confession that he had indeed damaged the watch on purpose. He declined to comment. I told him that while his loyalty to Lulu was commendable, his behaviour towards Peterson certainly wasn’t. It was a sad fact that not everyone could cope with the idea of dating a transvestite. It was a matter of preference, like not going for blondes or blokes with big biceps. I told him that I could understand that he was upset and angry on Lulu’s behalf, but engaging in deliberate vandalism as revenge wasn’t on. He told me I was a frigging prig and added that if it would make me happy and get me off his case, he’d pay for the bloody watch glass out of his own pocket. I said yes it would make me happy; it was the decent, honest thing to do. He glared at me and said he hadn’t realised he was shacked up with the patron saint of the anally retentive, and did my followers light their farts instead of votive candles when they paid homage? Then he told me not to bother picking him up from work that evening, as he would get the bus over to Lulu’s house and go straight to the Pink Parrot from there. I told him that I’d pick him up as usual and he wouldn’t be going anywhere but home and staying there. Our parting was cool and kiss-less.

 

 

18th January 2005:

 

Hate Mail

 

It was none of my business what he did at work, none whatsoever, what he did when he was at work was his business and his alone, and I had no right, none whatsoever, to interfere or comment or impose a punishment on him for something that took place during working hours. Our relationship rules did not apply to his place of work. Such was the anthem that Twinkles chanted all the way home on Saturday evening, made from the back seat of the car, he making known his disgust with me by refusing to sit in the front. I agreed that while his work was none of my business, his behaviour certainly was, wherever he was, and as I’d witnessed his behaviour first hand I had every right to make comment on it. In my opinion he deserved to be punished not only for the way he’d acted, but also for not thinking of the possible consequences of it. He was bloody fortunate that Leonard Peterson hadn’t asked to see the manager to make a formal complaint against him. I would if it had been me. A second of satisfaction in wreaking revenge on behalf of a friend could easily have cost him his job. I also told him that his attitude after being challenged over it had contributed to my decision to punish him. I wasn’t going to be spoken to like that (even if the votive candle quip was quite amusing)

He got on the phone as soon as we got home, loudly telling Lulu that he wouldn’t be out that evening because ‘HE’ was being anally retentive and had totally spoiled any inclination to socialise. When I informed him that dinner was ready he informed me that he’d rather drop a bra size than eat anything I’d prepared and took himself off to bed in high dudgeon. When I went up later I found him arrayed in a full-length satin nightdress accessorised with diamante earrings and matching necklace. He even had a touch of lip-gloss and mascara on. The message was very clear. I might be able to make him miss out on the PP, but I couldn’t make him completely forego his Saturday night dose of glitz and glamour. He woke me up at three o clock in the morning to apologise and admit that he shouldn’t have done what he’d done. It had been immature and spiteful. Did I still love him? I assured him that I did indeed love him and he said great, because he was absolutely starving and could I make him a sandwich because I made the best sandwiches and it had been my turn to make dinner. They say that love is blind. It must be, either that or stupid, how else would I have found myself making ham sandwiches at three o clock in the morning for a man in a pink satin nightie.

 

We received a weirdo letter on Monday morning. It had a typewritten envelope, but the letter itself was composed of words cut from newspapers and magazines and pasted onto plain paper. Very time consuming I would think, all that cutting and pasting. Some people really need to get a proper hobby, or a life. It read: ‘for the wages of sin is death.’ Twinks said he’d heard that the wages of sin could be quite lucrative if you worked for the right people and he’d once considered a career in the porn industry himself…he could have played a sexy horny twink called Twinks.

Being openly gay and living with Twinkles means that I’m not unused to encountering prejudice. It happens from time to time and I’ve learned to brush it off to a large extent, but the letter worried me because coming in the wake of the graffiti on the fence incident it had a hint of a hate campaign starting up about it. This seemed to be confirmed when we came home on Monday evening to find that someone had posted dog dirt through the letterbox (mind you that’s not a first by any means) Twinkles was really upset, especially as he was first through the door and trod in the disgusting stuff. It was a swine to get off his pink boots. Being targeted by a nutcase certainly wasn’t high on our New Year wish list. I’m just hoping it will be a short campaign.

 

 

21st January 2005:

 

Devil’s Work

 

We got another anonymous letter this morning, oh lucky, lucky us. It read: ‘Homosexuality is the work of unclean spirits, yay, and the devil himself!’ Well, as Twinkles said, everyone has the right to make a career choice, even the devil and spirits with no sense of personal hygiene. Despite trying to make light of it, he was upset by the letter, leaving his breakfast uneaten. My appetite went a similar way, but I was angry more than upset. I felt like our private space was being invaded and it wasn’t a nice feeling. I asked Twinkles if he thought his grandfather could be responsible for the letters, though the idea of a man in his late seventies cutting and pasting anonymous hate mail to send to his only grandson seemed almost too bizarre to contemplate. Twinks said that while his grandfather was a bastard of the first order, he wasn’t stupid. Surely he knew he’d be the first person we’d suspect of sending such letters, and anyway, when it came to being vicious and nasty the old pig preferred to do it to his victim’s face, so he could enjoy their pain and humiliation at first hand.

I shoved the nasty little note in a drawer along with the other one. If they persist we’ll have to consider reporting the matter to the police, though Twinkles isn’t too keen on the idea. He says we being who we are mean they won’t treat it with any kind of respect or seriousness. I queried whether it wasn’t he who was being a tad prejudiced there, pointing out that the police now had a better attitude and there was even a Gay Police Association. He claimed the GPA are fictitious and are in fact a bunch of straight men and women who are trundled out once a year for the London Gay Pride March in exchange for a bonus in their wages. I said he had no right to complain about the attitude of the police, not with that attitude. He said that when transvestites were allowed to become WPC’S and walk the beat dressed in high heels and evening dress then he might revise his attitude. I threw a cushion at him; sometimes it’s the only thing to do.

 

We’re going out later this evening to visit friends, namely my secretary Karen, who is on maternity leave and her husband Paul. They’ve recently had their first child, or at least Karen has. Paul was at the birth, but apparently fainted at the crucial moment. He needed more gas and air than she did, as well as two paper sutures in a head wound. Twinkles nearly wet himself laughing when he heard. He can’t wait to get round there and rib Paul about it. Twinkles hasn’t had much to do with babies and neither have I, but I at least know enough to realise that a two week old baby boy won’t be up to playing with the remote control pink Barbie sports car that Twinks bought for him today. He’s decided to wear standard jeans and t-shirt attire for the visit. Karen is breast-feeding and he fears that wearing a frock and falsies might encourage the baby to believe he has something to offer in the way of milk and attempt to latch onto them. I told him it was highly unlikely, unless he wore his falsies outside his dress and even then any discerning baby would be able to tell the difference between false boobs and the real thing. He took offence at that and claimed I’d insulted his feminine assets and questioned their validity. He wants to take one of them so he can compare it with one of Karen’s, to see how it matches up to the real thing. I’ve told him that he’s doing no such thing and to be on the safe side I’ve confiscated his breasts and hidden them. I’ve also told him that he’s not to leer over Karen’s shoulder when she’s feeding the baby. He says he’s going to ask her if he can have a suck because he’s heard that breast milk is full of vitamins and can rejuvenate the complexion. I’ve told him that if he dares make such an embarrassing request I’ll rejuvenate the complexion on his arse and give it a very rosy glow.

 

 

22nd January 2005:

 

The Queen Gets Broody

 

God help me! Twinkles is broody. As I write, I kid ye not, he’s sitting on the sofa with a cushion shoved up the front of his t-shirt reading a book of baby names while waiting for the polish on his toenails to dry. It’s all because of the trip to see Karen and Paul’s new son. Twinkles was a tad uncertain at first. When we arrived the baby was in the midst of having his nappy changed and not happy about it. Twinkles clutched my arm and pulled a horrified face asking how something so tiny could make so much noise and smell so foul, but the moment the baby’s miniature hand curled around his finger he was utterly besotted. None of us could get a look in after that, he’d bonded big time. I think he would have had a shot at breast-feeding if Karen had let him. As yet, due to parental disagreement, the baby is unnamed, he’s just ‘the baby’ hence Twinkles interest in the book of names. He keeps phoning Karen with suggestions, every other of which is Jonathan.

We went shopping at the retail park last evening and he dragged me into Mothercare, ostensibly to buy something for the baby, but, as I soon discovered, his real motive was to check out the maternity wear. It was really rather embarrassing. He was not at all impressed with what was on offer and despite my protests asked to see the manageress immediately. Holding up a huge bra and a smock thing, he loudly demanded an explanation as to why, why, WHY it was assumed that being with child robbed a person of all taste and fashion sense and he was surprised the human race hadn’t died out altogether if being pregnant meant you had to wear such hideous creations. He then dramatically burst into tears, telling the bemused manageress that he was sorry, it was just his hormones kicking in and he couldn’t help it. The moment he started to handle the nipple shields and breast pumps I insisted we leave.

He wants us to have a baby and be a family. I’ve told him that the chances of us being allowed to adopt a baby are very, very slim. God knows they’d be slim if we were a ‘straight’ gay couple, let alone the way we are. At best we might be able to foster an older child, possibly a teenager. He doesn’t want a teenager, had I ever met a teenager, they were frigging terrifying not to mention dangerous. He wants a nice little baby and what kind of heartless man puts obstacles in the way of his partner having a child. After all he’s not getting any younger, his biological clock is ticking, it’s up to me to help him have a child before the alarm goes off. He’s walking up and down the room now, with one hand supporting the underside of the cushion and the other held to the small of his back in imitation of a pregnant woman with backache. When he gets an idea into his head he really goes with it. I get the feeling it’s going to be a long, long weekend.

 

 

23rd January 2005:

 

Breaking Glass

 

I got one hell of a shock just moments after completing yesterday’s journal entry. I was closing down my computer while discussing with Twinks whether or not Karen would consider giving the baby a girls name in addition to a boys just in case he turned out to be transgender. I said Karen might possibly consider it, especially if under the influence of drink, but Paul definitely wouldn’t. At that precise moment a house brick exploded through the living room window. Fortunately we have horizontal blinds at the window, which helped shorten the brick’s trajectory and prevented a good proportion of the broken glass spraying directly into the room. Even so, because my computer desk is in the bay alcove, I was showered with glass and sustained a fairly deep cut to my cheek. I was lucky not to be hit by the brick itself. Twinkles was physically unhurt, but upset doesn’t begin to describe his reaction. He was utterly distraught, especially when he saw the blood running down my face. Only pure rage stopped him hitting the deck like a bag of hammers, as he usually does when he sees a lot of blood. We both darted outside but there was no one in sight. I called the police. Twinks was still in floods of tears when they arrived. He can’t help being sensitive and emotional, it’s the way he is. The female officer was brilliant, she had a look at my face, patched me up and advised me to have it properly seen to at the hospital, then she made Twinkles some tea and sat talking to him while I gave details to her partner. By the time they left Twinkles had supplied her with details of the nail colour he was wearing and given her advice on how to apply her eye shadow so it didn’t crease.

I told the male officer about the anonymous letters, the graffiti and the dog dirt. He asked if we could think of anyone who might bear us a grudge. Twinkles gave a fine snort and said it might be easier to say who didn’t bear two cohabiting gay blokes, one of whom was a cross dresser, a grudge. I had to tell them about Twinkles’ family and I also mentioned the flower incident, but very discreetly, so Twinks didn’t hear. They said they’d make enquiries and get back to us.

Once they’d gone I phoned someone to come and board up the window until we could get a glazier, then told Twinkles I was going to casualty to have my cheek looked at, as it was beginning to bleed through the dressing that the WPC had put on it. He wanted to go with me, which was sweet, but I said no because in my opinion he was stressed out enough and didn’t need to be sitting around in casualty for hours getting more stressed. Besides there had to be someone home when they came to board the window up. I told him that I would call mum to come and keep him company and he was to have a nice hot bath and concentrate on calming down. He said he was calm, thank you very much and stubbornly put his coat on, even though his hands were shaking so much he could barely fasten it. Would I allow him to go to the hospital alone…he didn’t frigging think so. I was disregarding his need to be with me. I was a selfish, arrogant pig, always assuming I knew best. Fair enough. Putting my arms around him I humbly apologised for my arrogant piggishness then called mum and explained what had happened. She was furious. I didn’t know she knew words like that. She agreed to come over and wait in for the window boarder while we attended the hospital saying she quite understood that Twinks would want to go with me and sometimes I could be so insensitive, just like my father.

 

The nurse at the hospital applied two paper sutures to my cheek and a tetanus booster shot to my left buttock. Twinkles called Lulu to say he wasn’t going to be out that night and why. By the time we arrived home the house was gradually filling up with friends from the PP, most of who were fully kitted in preparation for the customary Saturday night revels. They brought flowers, wine, chocolates, solidarity and sympathy along with colourful outfits and eye-watering clouds of perfume. I was touched, and not just emotionally. I’m sure Big Mary has a thing for me, because he never missed an opportunity to place a sympathetic hand on my knee. There’s something disconcerting, if not surreal, about being touched up by a fully bearded, sixteen stone bloke wearing blue eye shadow, a pink curly perm wig and a tight spangled red frock. I think it’s called hard drag. I must admit I do struggle at times to think of Big Mary as a she when she is very obviously a he (namely one Jerry Patterson, electrician of this parish)

My mother was in her element saying it was her idea of heaven to be in a room full of lovely men who were more interested in fashion and make up than beer and football. Twinkles was also in his element. I watched him floating around dressed in a pale blue ruffled peignoir, drinking wine, nibbling chocolates and thoroughly enjoying being the centre of attention. He caught my eye, gave one of his sexy little winks and blew me a kiss, which gave me a rather pleasurable twinge in the groin region I have to say. Love them or hate them, transvestites and drag queens are a unique bunch and you can’t ignore them, they won’t allow you to for a start. They’re brave, bitchy, loud, vulgar, sweet, glamorous, theatrical, rude, terrifying and hysterically funny and I’m proud to count them as friends. By the time the unexpected brick-through-the-window-party was over I felt far more optimistic about humanity than I had shortly after the aforementioned brick had violated the cosy domesticity of the home I share with Twinkles.

 

 

24th January 2005:

 

Stud

 

Twinks is still broody. He bought a pregnancy testing kit on Sunday morning, which he strategically placed on the bathroom window ledge. I told him that it might be the Sabbath, but miracles of that magnitude just didn’t happen. He said it was to remind me of my duty and with that in mind he’d looked up a few ladies on the Internet who might be willing to sleep with a fussy, bossy, slightly paunchy gay guy and bear his child at a reasonable cost. I was absolutely outraged especially when I checked the sites he’d been on and saw the prospective candidates he’d picked out for me to impregnate. For a moment I thought he’d mistakenly gone onto a veterinary site. Rough doesn’t begin to describe them, I’m sorry to say this, but they looked as if they’d mate with anyone for a can of Chum, a rubber bone and a walk in the park. I stated in crystal clear terms that I was not a stud and I was not going to put anyone in the pudding club, and neither was he. Pointing at the board that was covering the space where our window used to be I told him that with everything that was going on now was NOT the time to be thinking about having a family and we’d discuss it properly in due course. Not that I think for a minute he’s serious about it, it’s just one of his five minute obsessions. He went back to bed, claiming I’d induced a headache with my harsh ways, which translates as him sulking. I left him to it, opting for spending a few minutes in front of the hall mirror reassuring myself that I didn’t have a paunch.

We had Sunday lunch at mum’s house arriving to find Priscilla the Preacher there, or at least the male aspect of her, Eric Winn. We didn’t recognise her at first, having never seen him/her dressed in male attire. Priscilla is a relatively new patron of the PP and is only just beginning to make a social life (after his divorce) where his female aspect is ‘out’ and prominent. He’d been to visit one of his daughters and had dropped in on mum on the way home and she had invited him to stay for lunch. Twinkles reckons Priscilla and mum have got a thing going on. I told him he had an overactive imagination and warned against asking too many personal questions. He loves poking his nose into other people’s business. I felt a bit left out after lunch when they all thumbed through the Spring/Summer edition of the Littlewoods catalogue doing an assassination job on most of the clothes, though Twinkles did see a pair of sandals he liked. Priscilla quite liked a sleeveless blouse and mum commented on a nightdress, which Priscilla agreed was very fetching. I’m not sure I liked the look in his eyes when he said it. It made me wonder whether he was thinking he could borrow it if mum bought it, or whether Twinks was right and they had a thing going on and he was picturing her in it. Twinkles then showed a photo of Karen and Paul’s still unnamed baby that he had in his wallet. Priscilla started showing photos of his two little grandchildren and mum dragged out the photo album of pictures of my sister and me as children, at which point I began to flick through the abandoned catalogue. I made a mental note of one item that caught my eye, ‘Six Second Abs, crunch work out machine.’ I might get mum to order me one on the quiet.

 

There’s been no news from the police regarding our brick attack. Maybe Twinks is right and they’ll just brush it off as another random homophobic incident not worth wasting time on?

 

 

25th January 2005:

 

Steven

 

It’s late, but I can’t sleep. We received devastating news today. Our friend Steven, Brian’s beloved partner, passed away, we were shocked and yet we shouldn’t have been because Stevie had been HIV positive for over ten years and had full-blown AIDS for just over two of them. We knew he was poorly. He was in hospital battling pneumonia, a legacy of the cold he’d caught at Christmas, but he’d battled pneumonia before and won. We believed he would do so again, that it wasn’t his time yet and the drugs would keep him going a bit longer. They didn’t, not this time and he died with Brian beside him holding his hand. He was thirty-four years old. We don’t usually go to the PP at the beginning of the week, but we went this evening to support Brian because he wanted to publicly break the news that Stevie had died and get it over with, so that news trickled down the vine and he wouldn’t have to keep saying the dread words again and again.

The silence that fell after the announcement is hard to describe. All those who knew Steven in any capacity of course knew that he was gravely ill, but knowing did nothing to lessen the sense of shock at news of his death. From being a community comprised of friends and acquaintances, we went to being a roomful of individuals mindful of our own mortality. No one in the gay community can afford to be complacent about HIV. What happened to Steven could just as easily have happened to any one of us.

My solitude was broken by the touch of a hand, a hand. I grasped it, pulling Twinkles into my arms, holding him tight as we shared our grief for the loss of a good friend, a friend we’d seen a few days previously never imagining it would be for the last time. Surrounded by flowers, cards, balloons and soft toys he had looked small and frail lying in the hospital bed, but still managed to smile and tease and ask for details of our lives. That was Steven, always interested in other people, a kind man and a good friend who will be much missed. Brian left the PP soon after the announcement. Steven’s parents and sister are staying with him for a few days; he always got on well with Steven’s family.

I’m not sure that I’ve really taken the news onboard yet. It feels unreal, like someone could undo it if they really wanted to.

 

 

27th January 2005:

 

Remembrance

 

As yet there’s been no news from the police, and thankfully no more letters or bricks through the window. Perhaps whoever is responsible has got it out of their system. We can but hope and anyway in light of other matters it hardly seems that big a deal.

 

 

Steven’s funeral took place this afternoon. At his request it was a very small, very private affair. He wished to have no mourners other than Brian, his parents, his sister and a close cousin from childhood days…the people who had known him longest and loved him best. He didn’t want to think of friends weeping for him after his death. He wanted to recall us the way he loved seeing us, enjoying life and having fun and he wanted us to remember him the same way. As such there was to be a special party at the Pink Parrot in honour of his memory and in celebration of his life, to take place this coming Saturday. Everyone was invited, no long faces, no sombre dress and no tears. He requested that donations be made to AIDS charities in lieu of funeral flowers.

I’m worried about Twinkles. He isn’t eating or sleeping well and he’s very quiet. Steven’s death coming so soon after the death of his father has really shaken him. These are his first encounters with death. He says he’s fine and I’m to stop fussing like an old hen and had he told me how much he loves me lately? I said yes and he wasn’t to be getting any strange ideas about me dying and leaving him. Had I told him how much I love him lately and he said yes, but could I tell him again, just to be on the safe side. So I did, with actions as well as words.

 

 

29th January 2005:

 

Round-Robin

 

Almost the end of 2005’s first month and I have to say that so far, it’s not been the best of years.

On the evening after Steven’s funeral we received a round-robin email that he had prepared to be distributed to close friends in the event of his death. It was incredibly moving, as was the postscript by Brian and I thought Twinkles would cry when he read them. I certainly did, floodgates could not have kept my tears back, but Twinks didn’t cry. He comforted me as I wept, but he remained unusually composed. It unnerved me and I kept a close eye on him all evening, too close. I ended up getting on his nerves by following him from room to room asking if he were okay, did he need a cup of tea or anything. He told me in no uncertain terms that if he’d wanted a frigging parrot he would have purchased one and could I get off his shoulder please, as he’d really rather prefer to piss in private. I reprimanded him for his choice of words and then apologised for fussing explaining that I was just worried about him and I was there if he needed to talk. He kissed me and apologised for being a ratbag saying he loved that I cared enough to drive him up the wall and then he threw me out of the bathroom.

In the event my fussing seemed vindicated. Twinkles’ manager, Don, called my office yesterday with some unsettling news. Twinks had rowed with a customer over a jewellery repair that she wasn’t happy with, consequently reducing her to tears with his remarks, before storming out of the shop. Don was concerned and wanted to know if anything had happened to contribute to him behaving in such an unusual manner. He’s usually charm itself where customers are concerned. I was at a loss. He had seemed fine when I dropped him off at work. I immediately called his mobile, only to find it was switched off. I could have skinned him alive for that alone. I called the house phone, but spoke only to the answer machine, getting no response when I left a message telling him to pick up immediately if he was there. I headed home anyway.

The police car parked in the road outside our house did nothing to allay my anxieties. My imagination began weaving fantasies that would have been suitable for inclusion in a Stephen King horror story. Heart hammering I raced towards the house, almost colliding with the policeman emerging from the garden gate. It turned out that he’d just given Twinkles an update on their enquiries. There was no evidence to suggest that his family had anything to do with the letters, dog poo and brick attack. However, one of his sisters had admitted to removing the spray of flowers from the grave and dumping them on the doorstep. Twinkles was at last in receipt of a detail I had wanted to keep from him. I thanked the policeman and headed indoors. Twinkles was not taking the news well, not if the sounds emanating from the vicinity of the kitchen were anything to go by. I hurried in their direction.

By the time I reached the kitchen he was in full dramatic flow and the floor was already littered with remnants of assorted crockery. The moment he clocked me he snatched up the Clarice Cliff teapot he’d bought me for Christmas. I told him to put it down and we’d talk about why he was so angry and upset. He complied, but not in a way I approved of. I ducked in the nick of time. It struck the doorframe, above my head showering me with tea dregs and expensive shards of pottery. He then screeched that the teapot had cost him a hundred and fifty fucking quid and he hadn’t even paid for it yet and why hadn’t I had the sense to catch it, what kind of stupid man didn’t at least try to catch an expensive, unpaid for fucking teapot?

I could appreciate his distress, but I definitely did not appreciate having a heavy teapot hurled straight at my head, nor did I appreciate being abused for not catching it. I felt he needed to be made aware of my lack of appreciation. By the time I’d finished expressing the lack thereof, he was expressing his heartfelt regrets at not putting the teapot down in a more conventional manner.

I sent him to bed immediately afterwards, which probably sounds very harsh in the circumstances. The thing is, he’d completely lost any ability to control himself. In effect his action was a demand for me to take control of both him and the situation before it escalated still further. I did what was required and desired. There had been a look on his face just after the teapot left his hand, a look of sick horror and fear at the possible repercussions of his action, and by that I don’t mean me disciplining him for it. I mean realisation that if the teapot struck me it would badly injure me. The spanking I gave him served two purposes. It was punishment for his destructive temper and it absolved him of guilt about it. The sending to bed wasn’t me treating him like a child either, or thrusting him away in disgust, nor was it about punishing him further by sending him into solitude when he was clearly upset and in need of comfort. Our bed is a warm and loving place, the place we have sex, talk, cuddle, kiss, eat crisps, at least he does, despite me telling him not to. It’s where we watch television and read. In its way it’s the nucleus of our life together. Sending him there is a reaffirmation of my love for him and Twinkles likes and needs it. It’s the best and most caring thing I can do for him after an emotional punishment.

He once told me that when I had first threatened to send him to bed he experienced a feeling that was hard to explain, something akin to a short orgasm followed by long tedium, the authoritative sound of the words being more thrilling than their reality. They made him cross and at the same time made him feel protected. Discipline needs are complex and a lot of people assume that discipline is all about punishing, but it isn’t. It’s also about nurturing.

Thankfully, the mess in the kitchen looked worse than it actually was, a little broken pottery goes a long way. I was upset about the teapot, not that I had liked the thing to be truthful, but because I knew he did and I also knew how guilty he would feel about breaking something that he had gifted to me, another good reason for walloping his backside. Better a prescribed resolution than days of unhappy guilty feelings. Maybe we could claim on the insurance, citing the teapot as a victim of negative anger, which begs the question, isn’t anger always negative? I don’t think so. I think anger is a healthy, positive emotion that is frequently misquoted. When someone says they’re angry, they often mean they’re sad, frightened, hurt, unhappy, they just don’t know how to express those emotions or if its justifiable to express them, so they opt for anger and it then becomes a destructive negative force.

Twinkles told me he lost his temper with the customer because she had bitterly complained that her diamond ring still had a rough claw and was catching on things, as if it were a tragedy. He had angrily told her that if a rough claw on a lump of carbon was all she had to worry about in life, she should count herself dam lucky. There were people lying six foot under who would think a rough claw a reason to rejoice in being able to feel it. Then he was angry to discover that his sister hated him enough to remove his tribute from his father’s grave. He was angry with me for not telling him about it in the first place and said sometimes I babied him appallingly. Most of all, he was angry with Steven. Not because he’d died, but because he’d denied his friends the opportunity to pay their formal respects and to mourn him properly. That’s when I understood where his anger was really coming from. It was renewed grief at being excluded from his father’s funeral. It was grief and frustration at being denied the opportunity to say goodbye, to make peace in a ritualistic manner. He just hadn’t known how to say so, or even if he had the right to say so and he’d tried to suppress his feelings because they felt selfish and petty. In the end they’d come out as anger. I’ve asked him to think about making an appointment with the resident counsellor at our doctor’s surgery. She might be able to help him with all the emotions he’s struggling with in a more detached manner than I can.

Twinkles compounded the awfulness of the day by demanding that I read to him as he lay in bed, not that I objected to reading to him as such, but come on, there are limits…The Stud by Jackie Collins being one of them. I begged him to reconsider, to choose another book, but he gave me the big doe eyes, and with a sigh I capitulated hoping that he’d fall asleep. He didn’t, the rotten little sod made me read half the damn book. It was hell.

 

I met Twinks for lunch today. Don, his boss, who is a good sort, accepted his explanation and apology for yesterday’s events asking only that Twinks put things right with the lady customer in question. Lunch was nice, subdued but nice. We went to a little place by the river and managed to get a window seat. The river was winter beautiful and very masculine, fluid grey metal channelling between dun banks powdered with frost.

Well, I suppose I’ve spent enough time playing Pepys for today. I’d better make a move, as I’ve got things to do and it won’t be long before I have to set off to pick Twinkles up from work. It’s Steven’s party this evening. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it as such.

 

 

30th January 2005:

 

Steven’s Party

 

A funeral is or should be a celebration of a person’s life, no matter how short that life might have been. It’s meant to be a thanksgiving for having known them and loved them and in that respect last night’s party for Steven was every bit as meaningful as a funeral, but without the heavy religious sombreness. The PP looked fantastic. There were huge blown up photographs of Steven everywhere. Photos of him as a boy with his family, photos of him laughing, personal photos of him with Brian and ones of him at various PP events. They were photos of a good-looking man before AIDS took its toll on him. On the surface it was a happy evening. Everyone had made an effort to look special and sound bright, but even so there was an undercurrent of sorrow, which occasionally broke through resulting in the tears that Steven had forbidden to be shed on his behalf…sometimes tears must have precedence over all else, they’re necessary and I think Stevie might actually have rather liked and been touched by the rivers that flowed for him. We recalled his uncoordinated but enthusiastic dancing and his wicked sense of humour and the time he wound up every drag queen in the PP by turning up as a convincing new Gal on the block, Tequila Mockingbird, fooling everyone and causing jealous speculation as to the identity of the glamorous upstart newcomer.

Brian was immaculately suited and elegantly turned out as he always is, but while the smile on his face was in the here and now, the look in his eyes was back in a time when Steven was still alive. My heart ached for him.

The highlight of the evening was so typically Steven and his sense of humour. There were party bags for everyone to take home. Barbie bags for the tranny crowd and Fireman Sam bags for the butch boys from the leather bar downstairs. They included chocolate body paint, a brush to apply it, Hershey’s chocolate kisses, and lube, and of course condoms along with a red AIDS ribbon. We pinned on the ribbons and stood in silence for some moments in respect, love and remembrance of our lovely Steven and all of those whose lives have been so cruelly cut short by the worldwide human tragedy of AIDS.

 

 

1st February 2005:

 

Sir Tarn

 

Twinkles shook me awake at five-thirty this morning. He’d gone to answer the call of nature and found something sinister lurking in the bathroom, could I investigate?

 

We both stared at it thoughtfully, was it…wasn’t it?

 

He, standing some distance behind me, said I ought to poke it, because, as a Top, I was supposed to be brave and fearless. I asked him where he’d acquired that myth from and he said from reading stories on the Internet. All the Tops he read about were built like stone fortresses, were scared of nothing and yet were deeply nurturing. The Internet has a lot to answer for in my opinion. It allows certain sets of people to create myths and other sets to take them up and believe in them to the letter. Taking a deep breath I advanced and heroically poked the sinister object. It didn’t move, so I poked it again, then grinned with relief. There was no doubt this time. The hairy object on the bar of soap was definitely one of Twinks’ false eyelashes. Playfully swatting him back to bed I told him that if he didn’t stop leaving the damn things lying around I was going to ban him from wearing them.

Seeing as we were awake we made the most of it and enjoyed some early morning canoodling. I asked if I fitted the profile of the fictional Tops he read about online, and he said no, because they were all muscled god-like hunks of few words, whereas as I was a slightly paunchy ordinary looking man who constantly nagged, but I had a great arse which he loved getting his hands on. I said that according to the fiction he read wasn’t he, as brat, bottom or sub to my Top or Dom, supposed to humbly call me sir and stand up when I walked into a room? When he’d finished laughing he said that if I wanted someone to call me sir I’d have to become a teacher or something, because he wasn’t going to do it. I hugged him and told him I’d keep him anyway. Actually, the very thought of being called sir by someone I love leaves me cold. I don’t get off on that kind of obvious subservience, it grates on me, but each to their own as the saying goes. At the optimum moment in our canoodling, the little toad suddenly yelled Oooh, sir, sir, I think you’re getting there, sir, give it to me, sir, treat me rough, sir, abuse me horribly, thank you, sir! It put me off my stroke and we both ended up in a laughing heap on the bed.

 

Our happy bubble suffered something of a pinprick when we went downstairs for breakfast and caught sight of a familiar type written envelope hunching malevolently on the doormat. Picking it up I thrust it unopened into the drawer with the others, telling Twinkles that it was to stay unopened until this evening. We had a day’s work to get through and we didn’t need whatever nastiness it contained preying on our minds. We’d deal with it later. His lovely brown eyes took on a mutinous cast and he said he wanted to read it there and then. I firmly told him that if he so much as opened the drawer, never mind the envelope, I would show him just how Toppish I could be and he wouldn’t enjoy it one little bit. ‘Yes, sir,’ he muttered sarcastically, wrapping his kimono more tightly about himself and tottering towards the kitchen in his pink mules.

 

 

2nd February 2005:

 

Ordinary People

 

Those who live in sin and die without repenting of that sin shall be cast into the fires of eternal damnation. Homosexuality is an affront to the Lord…So said the epistle of whatever small-minded bigot had sent it. I thrust it back into the drawer in disgust. Twinkles rolled his eyes and made pithy comments about people with nothing better to do than persecute others. It was my turn to wash up after dinner and afterwards I walked into the sitting room to find him rearranging the furniture. He often does that when he’s worried about something, as if moving stuff around will make whatever is bothering him disappear. In this case I guessed the anonymous letter. The trouble is, he never likes the way the room looks after all the rearranging and inevitably loses his temper because it hasn’t worked out according to the plan in his head. Firmly putting the couch back in its original location I sat on it and pulled him onto my lap demanding he tell me what was on his mind. He asked if I thought we were bad people and whether the way we lived and loved really was intrinsically wrong and we would go to hell as a result? And what about poor Steven, was he in hell, after all he hadn’t repented before he died? I said that in my opinion Steven had had no need to repent. He’d done nothing terrible, so what could he repent of…making mistakes, as we all do, being in love, being a nice, kind, generous person, being in fact basically ordinary? I told Twinkles what I’ve told him many times before, that I believe that God, if there be one, will judge his creation by their actions, and not by their gender preferences. Love, respect and honour are love, respect and honour whether they occur between a man and a woman, or between same sex partners, all that matters is that you don’t deliberately injure and harm other people during your journey through life. To my mind it’s people like Twinkles’ grandfather, and our sweet correspondent who should repent for their vicious bigotry and their lack of tolerance and kindness. They are the ones who cause suffering and misery.

To cheer him up I lent him my face to play with and do a makeover on. He loves doing that. He says it’s a good way of trying out new looks. Frankly, I thought he overdid the blusher. I looked as if I’d been slapped repeatedly, either that or running a fever, and the green eye shadow was also a bit startling, but I didn’t say so. Afterwards we snuggled up on the sofa together, him in his Cher wig, Janet Reger thong and pink mules and me in jeans, rugby shirt and full makeup. We fed each other ice cream while lusting after Russell Crowe in Gladiator. We’re just an ordinary couple trying to get on with life, why should we repent for that?

 

 

4th February 2005:

 

Revelation

 

Well, another week almost over, where does the time go? The police have made no progress with regard to our anonymous mailer. The general attitude seems to be that no real harm has been done, apart from the minor injury I got when the brick came through the window. There’s no evidence to suggest that the brick incident is connected with the crank sending the letters. It seems we’re just expected to grin and bear it like tolerant and sporting homosexuals in the hope that the crank tires of his/her hateful little hobby.

 

We went to my mother’s for dinner last evening after she complained that she hardly ever sees us, which incidentally is untrue. I’m a good and dutiful son I am. She seemed a bit down. I asked her if everything was okay and she asked me how I felt about being a big brother again? Twinks let out an ear splitting scream and said he knew, he just KNEW, she’d been carrying on with Priscilla and really at their age they should have been more responsible for heavens sake. Hadn’t they heard of condoms? Mum coldly informed him that it wasn’t she who was pregnant and then revealed who was. It transpires that it’s my dad’s girlfriend and they’re planning to marry. I was gob smacked by the news and not really sure how to react. Being a big brother is one thing, I’m big brother to my sister and I quite like it, but being big brother to a child when you’re old enough to be its father is a bit disconcerting. I was also a little bit hurt because my father hadn’t told me himself.

Poor mum, after telling us the news she burst into tears and I tried my best to comfort her. I could understand why she was upset. It was bad enough that her husband had left her for a younger woman, but now that younger woman was pregnant, something that must accentuate the fact that she was getting older. I asked if she still missed him and was a bit taken aback by her reply. She snapped no actually, it had been a relief when he left, and miss prissy knickers was welcome to him. She only wished he’d left her earlier so that she too could have had a chance at picking up the pieces of her life and finding someone else. I said there was no reason why she shouldn’t find someone else. She told me to wake up and smell the decay beneath the full-blown rose, and didn’t I realise that women got old while men just matured and it wasn’t fair. Twinkles’ feminine side took ascendancy and putting an arm around mum he glared at me and said men could be such selfish bastards. They took a woman’s best years and left them as withered, dried out old husks…words that actually made mum cry even more. Then the gin was brought out and they sat exchanging horror stories about the women they knew who had been cruelly discarded once they’d passed their youthful prime, only in Twinkles’ case the women were actually men. Then of course he had to go and ask about her relationship with Priscilla/Eric, even though I’d told him not to poke his nose into her private business. She burst into a further paroxysm of tears and I honestly could have smacked the backs of his legs.

Once the tears ceased, she confessed that yes, she had sort of been seeing him, but they’d had a row because she had questioned his wisdom in selecting a striped blouse to go with a checked skirt and they hadn’t spoken since. Twinks was appalled by this fashion gaffe and offered to have a word with Priscilla when he saw him at the PP over the weekend. To my relief mum declined saying she didn’t want Eric thinking she had been talking about him behind his back. She would prefer to sort things out herself, though it was sweet of Twinks to offer, which is more than her own flesh and blood had done. I just can’t win sometimes. My trying to respect her right to personal privacy had obviously been interpreted as me not caring.

On the way home Twinkles, aided by a surfeit of gin, got maudlin and asked if I would desert him when he got past his prime, after all he was no longer an official twink anymore, not now he was twenty-five. I told him I loved him for who he was and not the way he looked, which even as I said it, sounded all wrong. Twinkles took offence and asked whether I was trying to tell him he had a nice personality, but a face like the wrong end of an old sow headed for the bacon factory? I’d had quite enough of being deliberately misread and told him to watch his attitude. All I meant was that I loved him, full stop, and I always would… a brainwave hit me…like in the film Highlander when MacLeod loyally loved his woman Heather Blossom until she died of old age. He gave me a disparaging look and snorted, ‘well, darling, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not an immortal so don’t go deluding yourself about not starting to show your age.’ He then reminded me that I was older than he was and not half as well kept. I told him that he was a bitchy little queen, which he graciously accepted as a compliment.

 

He was an absolute devil to get out of bed this morning. When he did finally sit down at the breakfast table, he had a face on him that could sour milk. It soured further when he opened his credit card statement and was reminded that he had to pay for a teapot that no longer existed. I stopped the would be tantrum in its tracks, removing the statement from his hands and telling him that we would discuss it, calmly, this evening and not before. I lost patience when he deliberately dragged his heels getting ready for work. He snapped that he couldn’t understand why I was nagging. It wasn’t as if I had to get to the office. My office is being decorated and I loathe the smell of paint, it gives me a migraine, so I decided I’d work from home today. When I reminded him that he still had to be at work on time, he said that he was sick of his boring-boring-boring job and he didn’t frigging care if he was late. It had so much of a pouty childish “so-there,” about it that I felt obliged to deliver a swat to his sulky rump.

In view of his comment about work and what I found in his trouser pockets when I was putting some laundry in the washing machine, I suspect his morning moodiness of being rooted in nervous guilt. That boy of mine just doesn’t do subterfuge very well. It unsettles him. Little Miss Stardust Twinkles had better have a good explanation.

 

 

6th February 2005:

 

Deceitful Carrot

 

Twinkles did indeed have an explanation for what I found in his trouser pocket and I have to confess that it didn’t please me for a number of reasons. He came over all defensive and told me that I had no right to go laundering his trousers without asking if they needed laundering. Would he launder my trousers without asking, he didn’t think so, and anyway, he had the right to make his own choices. I reminded him that actually he didn’t, not without consulting me first. In this case I felt he had directly gone behind my back and was guilty of deception. When I put this to him, he was genuinely shocked and upset saying it wasn’t like that at all and trust me to put a negative slant on things. I laid out the facts as I saw them: he had arranged a day’s leave from work, without telling me, he had purchased a day return rail ticket to York, without telling me and why? So he could attend an open audition that he had seen advertised in ‘The Stage,’ again, without telling me. If I hadn’t decided to do the laundry and not come across the rail ticket in his trouser pocket, he apparently would have let me drive him to ‘work’ on Saturday morning, after which he would have nipped down to the station and boarded a train for York, attended an audition, returning in time for me to collect him from ‘work.’ I asked exactly when he had been planning to tell me about his little jaunt…when and if he got whatever part he was auditioning for perhaps? He hadn’t thought of it as doing something behind my back and accused me of being despotic saying I wanted to make him feel bad for doing something he wanted to do and promptly dissolved into tears.

The tears were designed to throw me off balance and deter me from pursuing the matter, but I felt it needed to be pursued. I asked if he trusted me, and he said yes, he’d trust me with his life. I asked in that case why hadn’t he trusted me enough to tell me he was going to an audition. He said he didn’t know. Anyway I knew now, so it didn’t matter and to just let it drop for God’s sake. I was like a dog with a bone once I got the bit between my teeth, and if I pointed out that was a mixed metaphor he’d have to slap me. I told him it did matter and that I wanted him to think about it very carefully. I also told him that in the circumstances I didn’t think it appropriate that we go out to the PP that evening. He was NOT happy with me, but then I wasn’t happy with him, which kind of balanced us out. We sat watching television in silence for a while, and then, just as the body count in Taggart was getting ridiculous, he plonked himself on my lap. Putting his arms around my neck he hugged me and said he was sorry if he’d hurt my feelings. I asked if he had given due consideration as to why he’d kept me in the dark with regard to this matter?

Apparently, after a particularly dull morning at work he had been reading The Stage magazine in his lunch break and had seen an advert for auditions and decided that he wanted to go. This, he convinced himself in best Billy Liar mode was his possible big break into the exciting world of theatre. He couldn’t bring himself to tell me in case I tried to discourage him and make him feel foolish. I sternly told him that was absolute nonsense. He knew I would never knowingly put him down and he was very naughty for even suggesting that as a reason.

The whole thing had a ring of Stardust impulse about it. He’d bedazzled himself with wild daydreams about being snatched to instant stardom. He hadn’t told me beforehand, because he knew I’d come over all boring and bubble bursting by wanting to talk about the pros and cons of the situation. He hadn’t told me afterwards, because he knew I’d reprimand him for not discussing it first, and worse, I might say he couldn’t go…was I right? He sheepishly admitted that I was. I asked why he should have discussed it with me first? Without hesitation he said because he was my partner and by definition any choices he made affected me. That it was it exactly. We were partners and as such things had to be shared, aired and discussed before decisions and choices were made. It was only fair and it was the only way of avoiding misunderstandings and bad feelings.

To my mind he had lied by omission and I wasn’t too suited about it, reminding him that good relationships were not built on lies and deceit. He apologised. I asked what the auditions were for and he said he wasn’t sure. He’d just seen the advert for auditions and had got all excited because they were being held in a city he could access easily. It was a singing and dancing review thing. He said he knew he was a silly man and that the audition would attract thousands of stage struck wannabe’s all of who would be younger, more talented, more experienced and more qualified than he was, but he still wanted to go, please, pretty please. I told him that he could go, just for the experience and to get it out of his system, but if he imagined for a moment he was going to throw in his regular job for a six-week stint that paid peanuts, he could think again, and nor was he going off touring leaving me on my own. He flung his arms around me and said he would never go anywhere without me and when he got famous I could throw in my job and tour with him as his personal tart.

 

I will never forget the look on Twinkles’ face when the man directing the auditions asked him to convey the qualities of a carrot. In his exact words, “I want you to give me a spunky carrot, a carrot with attitude, a carrot that kids are gonna want to identify with.”

It turned out that the auditions were for people to play a range of fruit and vegetables in a musical play aimed at promoting healthier food to school kids. Twinkles told the director man where he could shove his spunky carrot and that was it. Another door to the glamorous world of showbiz slammed closed. Poor Twinkles, he felt so foolish and embarrassed by it all. I promised that I would never mention the incident to anyone. Putting my arms around him I told him that he was and always would be a beautiful, glamorous, wonderful Star to me.

 

 

13th February 2005:

 

Honoured By The Sea

 

Twinkles received a phone call at work on Thursday morning. It was from someone claiming to be a doctor at our local hospital. He told Twinkles that I had been involved in a serious traffic accident and that he needed to get to the hospital as soon as he could because I was in a critical condition. Twinkles immediately went into panic overload. His boss tried to calm him saying that in his opinion it was highly unlikely that a doctor would call and impart that kind of news by telephone. If there had been a road accident it was more likely that the police would contact him with information. He was of course right and a call to me at work soon confirmed that Twinks had been a victim of a cruel hoax. He was made ill with the shock and couldn’t stop shaking. Our doctor prescribed him a mild sedative and he slept most of Thursday night. I almost wish the doctor had prescribed me one, because I was so angry I felt like I was going to explode. I called the police and had a rant at them. I didn’t feel they were treating the matter of our harassment seriously enough. Maybe I was being a bit unreasonable, but it’s all so frustrating not to mention worrying. I’m afraid that someone will hurt Twinkles or even hurt me in order to hurt him. I can’t think of anyone that we might have offended enough to make them want to treat us like this. That said, some people don’t need a reason. They see their personal prejudices as justification enough for the persecution of others.

 

On a much lighter and nicer note we had some lovely news this afternoon. Feeling a need to get away for a while we drove out to the coast parking on the headland at Hartlepool. It being February we were the only people daft enough to be parked on top of a freezing cliff facing the North Sea. We cuddled up in the back seat with a blanket tucked around us, drinking coffee and eating sandwiches, while watching and listening to the sound of the ocean. Afterwards, taking advantage of the wonderful seclusion we kissed and petted a little. Things were getting interesting enough to put a serious strain on my underwear and jeans zipper when my mobile rang. It was Karen. She and Paul had finally agreed on a name for the baby. He was to be called Dominic Jonathan Tarn. We were both very honoured by the gesture, though Twinkles did say he thought it should be Jonathan Dominic Tarn, but that’s Twinks for you, a self centred little ego-maniac. It was the brightest moment in a dark few weeks, but not as bright as what followed.

Twinkles was thrilled and phoned mum with the news, shrieking into the phone, ‘Joan, you’re going to be a god-granny.’ Yep, Karen and Paul have asked Twinkles and I to be baby Dominic’s Godparents. We’re delighted.

 

 

18th February 2005:

 

Consequences

 

I was furious with Twinkles last night. My father called and said he was on his way over to see me. Twinkles immediately started pulling faces and muttering and moaning, he and dad don’t really see eye to eye at the best of times. He decided to go visit Lulu and watch highlights of London Fashion week rather than stay and take tea and make polite conversation with old dull duck (his rude name for my dad) I said fine and dropped him over at Lu’s telling him to call me when he needed a lift home, as I didn’t like the idea of him walking, not with some grudge bearing head case on the loose out there. I enjoyed dad’s visit and I must confess that it was nice to chat and spend some time alone with him without Twinks winding him up in his usual sly fashion. He’s always twice as ‘gay’ around dad as he is around anyone else and it has to be said, much as I adore him, he’s gay enough then. Despite finding it very hard to accept what happened between him and mum, I do still love and respect my dad very much. You forget sometimes that your parents are people just like any other. You somehow expect them to be different; to be perfect in fact and it isn’t realistic or fair. He apologised for not having told me about the baby. He meant to, but he was still reeling from the news himself. It hadn’t been planned and he was finding the prospect of fatherhood at his age all rather daunting. He admitted he was rather embarrassed by it and concerned as to how my sister and myself would take the news that we were to have a baby sibling. I told him not to worry and to give our love and congratulations to Gill. It’s Gill’s first child and she’s thrilled at the prospect of motherhood.

Just as dad was leaving our house there was a commotion in the close when a motorbike screeched to a halt just behind dad’s parked car, almost hitting the bumper. I heard the blood drain from his face in the dark. Mine drained from my face, in fact my entire body when I saw who was riding pillion on the bike. It was Twinkles. He was dressed in pedal pusher jeans, gold open toe sandals, a t-shirt and flimsy jacket…and no crash helmet. He wouldn’t have stood a chance of escaping injury not even in a minor accident. He waved a cheery goodbye to Lulu, as he roared off manically peeping his horn and then turned towards the house, promptly tripping as he caught his heel in the storm drain. He’d obviously been boozing, another point in his disfavour. Tottering up the path he insulted dad by advising him where to buy condoms from and then grinned at me and disappeared into the house. Dad glared after him and then crisply told me that I ought to have words with my bad mannered man. I fully intended to.

He claimed I was being unreasonable. Lulu didn’t have a spare helmet yet. He’d only got the bike today, and it wasn’t that far a distance, nothing could possibly have happened. He hadn’t walked home, had he? He was home all right, wasn’t he? And he’d saved me having to drive over and collect him, so what the Mary Poppin’s was I ranting on about? I was rendered furious by his wilful disregard for his own safety, and that’s what it was. He’d wanted a ride on the bike and nothing as mundane as proper clothing and crash helmets was going to stop him having what he wanted when he wanted it. I stripped off his jeans and pants, put him across my knee and gave his bare backside my considered opinion as to its spoilt owner’s flawed reasoning. I then got the wooden spoon from the kitchen and did another tour of his bottom with it. From time to time a hand spanking just doesn’t seem sufficient for discipline purposes. The spoon stings like heck and I made sure that Twinkles would never again think about getting on a motorbike in anything less than full leathers and crash helmet, not without remembering what the consequences were likely to be, if he was lucky and didn’t get killed before I could get my hands on him. Once he’d calmed down he apologised. I was right, he just couldn’t wait to have a ride on the bike and he had convinced himself and Lulu that accidents weren’t that common, and they always happened to other people anyway. I said in future he was to think about what Tarn would want in the circumstances and not what Twinkles wanted and that would guarantee not only his general safety, but also the specific safety of his backside. He sarcastically commented that if he always took into account what I wanted he’d be so safe that he’d die of boredom, never mind anything else.

 

25th February 2005:

 

The Bequest

 

From time to time, Twinkles’ father would call and they’d arrange to meet in a little café near Victoria Bridge overlooking the Tees. They’d exchange small news and stunted talk for an hour or so before saying an awkward goodbye. Twinks was always unhappy for a few days after the meetings and part of me wanted to forbid them because I couldn’t bear to see him hurting, but I didn’t. I had no right. Only Twinks could make that decision and he obviously needed the contact no matter how unsatisfying and painful, and I guess his father did too. I was introduced to him once only. He seemed essentially pleasant, but embarrassed, a man painfully embarrassed by life and by the fact that his son was not only gay, but that he also liked to wear women’s clothes. The time I was present at one of their meetings Twinkles got up to avail of the facilities. I watched his father’s eyes follow him across the room. There was a look there that is hard to describe, hurt, confusion mixed with, I don’t know, love and maybe remembrance of the child that his son had once been. The lines around his mouth deepened, as if he were in pain. I felt uncomfortable witnessing such rawness.

A few days ago, to his astonishment, Twinkles received a letter from his father’s solicitor. His father had left him something in his will. The bequest turned out to be a small amount of money and some personal items, as well as a letter for him and, to my great surprise, a letter for me too. He hasn’t opened his letter yet. He picks it up, stares at it and then puts it down again. I asked if he would like me to open it for him, but he said no, he would do it himself when he was ready. One of the personal items was a gold watch. It’s an old watch, a beautiful thing that once belonged to his paternal great grandfather. Twinkles remembers his dad wearing it, and how it annoyed his mother that he did so in preference to a watch that she had given him. He reckons it was one of the few times his father ever held out against her will. He keeps touching the watch and removing it from his wrist in order to read the names inscribed on the back beginning with Edmund Lane, under which is engraved the name of Twinkles’ grandfather, William Lane, and then Twinkles’ father, Richard Lane. Under Richard Lane, freshly engraved, is Jonathan Lane. A family heirloom passed with love and pride from father to eldest son. There is no more room for further names. The line ends with Jonathan.

The note to me read: ‘Thank you for allowing Jonathan to be himself, no one ever did that, least of all me. I wanted to make him into something that I understood and that the world could understand, not for totally selfish reasons, but to save him further pain and grief. He got enough of that inside his own home. I was wrong. All I did was cause him more grief and confusion by trying to set him against himself. I used to hear him crying at night, but I didn’t know how to help him, except to try and make him conform to the world around him and to the standards of his grandfather. The day he left home I thanked God, because he would have been lost if he’d stayed. Take care of him. I wish you both a lifetime of happiness together.’

The note both touched and saddened me, but it devastated Twinkles. He broke down as he recalled how he used to lie in bed crying and sometimes wishing he could go to sleep and never have to wake up again, not to die exactly, but not to live either because it frightened him so much. He was a child then, a young teenager struggling not only to come to terms with being gay, but struggling with the added complications of his transgender inclinations. Sleep at least offered a kind of rest that living did not, and with the hope of some hazy kind of resurrection: ‘wake me up when the world understands what I am, when I understand what I am, wake me up when I’m normal, whatever normal is.’ He wishes his dad could have told him in person the things he’d written in the note or even just hugged him. It would have made all the difference in the world to know that he wasn’t struggling alone.

We’re still waiting for a counselling appointment to come through for him.

 

 

27th February 2005:

 

Night Of Fallen Stars

 

There was a Diva do at the PP last night. They happen about once a month. Everyone has to dress up as a glamour icon even those who don’t normally do drag. It’s not one of my favourite occasions to be honest with you. I dislike being just about the only male dressed as a male in a room full of grossly exaggerated Liz Taylor’s, Cher’s, Judy Garland’s, Lisa Minnelli’s, Britney Spears, etc, etc. Twinks claims I would enjoy it more if I entered into the spirit of the thing, but I refuse point blank to even consider dressing in drag. I didn’t go to last night’s shindig. I really wasn’t feeling too good. I’ve got a heavy cold and a rasping sore throat. Twinks tried hard not to be cross with me, but he was. He hates me being unwell at the best of times. It makes him feel edgy and anyway he likes me to be there, giving him all my attention and going to the bar to replenish his glass while he holds court with his friends. Plus he was Madonna and he needed me as an accessory i.e. his Guy Ritchie. He claimed I’d feel better if I went out, it would take my mind off feeling lousy, but I declined to accessorise. All I wanted was an early night. While he was getting ready I ordered a taxi for the return run incurring his wrath when I informed him that I’d booked it for one a.m. What did I think he was, some kind of cross-dressing Cinderella who would turn into a frigging pumpkin if he stayed out past one? I told him that in my opinion one o clock was more than sufficient and if he didn’t like it he could just stay in. He went out.

He duly arrived home in the pre-booked taxi…along with Diana Ross (aka Lulu) who had had a bust up with his latest boyfriend and was in a state bordering hysteria, no doubt aided by the amount of alcohol he’d sloshed down his gullet. He had been crying so much that his makeup had great white streaks in it (really, one has to ask whether it’s quite pc blacking up these days?) and his false eyelashes had come adrift. One was sitting on his upper lip like a Charlie Chaplain moustache, while the other had become entangled in his hoop earring and looked like a spider on a trapeze. Twinks wasn’t much better, nor were the several others who had poured themselves into the taxi in order to offer solace and comfort to their rejected sister in arms (or stilettos) I confiscated the vodka and gin, switched off the recording of ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow,’ made black coffee and soothing noises all round, packed Madonna off to bed, and settled the rest down with blankets and pillows.

The sitting room this morning looked like the reception room at the Betty Ford Clinic scattered with the wrecks of fallen Stars waiting to be rehabilitated. I ended up serving tea, painkillers and sympathy to Diana Ross, Judy Garland and Bette Midler. My own little star is still abed as I write and I have painkillers on standby ready for when he surfaces, though I’m not yet certain whether I’ll be serving them with sympathy.

 

1st March 2005:

 

Christening News

 

If there’s one thing Twinkles hates more than me being unwell, it’s being unwell himself and I can’t say I find it a bundle of laughs either. He’s not what you’d call a patient patient. He’s caught my cold and sore throat, only of course with him it’s flu and tonsillitis…and what kind of cruel and thoughtless man infects his poor partner with such evil germs? I apologised profusely and spent yesterday pandering to the invalid, tucking him up in bed with plenty of Lemsip, hot water bottles and sympathetic cuddles. I have to confess that by half past eight last night I was running a bit low on sympathy, especially when he called me upstairs to turn over the page of a book for him as he claimed he was too weak to do it himself. There are days when being single and heterosexual seem distinctly appealing.

 

Karen and Paul called to inform us that they’d set the date for Dominic’s Christening. It’s on Easter Sunday. The news cheered Twinkles and he immediately began to make plans about what he was going to wear, which started alarm bells ringing in my head. I felt it essential to nip in the bud any ideas he might have about going dressed in full and fancy fairy godmother mode, before he got too carried away. I told him gently but firmly that this wasn’t an appropriate occasion to fully dress up for exactly the same reasons it hadn’t been appropriate to do so for Karen and Paul’s wedding. He wasn’t pleased and has been decidedly huffy ever since, but he’s accepted it, which is more than he did for their wedding. That was a day that was. I ended up in a tussle with a Miss Susie Wong who had invited herself to the wedding in place of Twinkles. It was also the day I realised how much I loved the latter and wanted to make a commitment to him, and one of these fair days I might just write about it.

 

 

6th March 2005:

 

Queen Rage

 

We had yet another letter from our anonymous friend yesterday morning, it read ‘Repent or BURN!’ The word burn had been formulated in capital letters and coloured red, which gave it an air of childish spite that was worrying, some of the nastiest deeds are carried out by adults who have never intellectually matured beyond that kind of childishness. I didn’t show it to Twinkles. I didn’t want to upset him especially as he’s still unwell. His cold settled on his chest. Twinks being Twinks got hysterical about the possibility he had contracted Aids and this was the first sign. As we both had HIV tests done when we got serious and wanted peace of mind to take our sexual relationship beyond contact by condom I told him it was highly unlikely, unless he’d been playing away from home and not taking aforementioned precautions. I made him an appointment with the doctor who prescribed antibiotics for a chest infection while assuring him it was highly unlikely to develop into pneumonia.

There was no PP for him on Friday or last night, which did nothing to offset his grumpiness over feeling ill. It got worse when Lulu dropped by yesterday afternoon with gossip of Friday night’s happenings at the PP. He told Twinks that Natalie had stood in for one of Cherie Pie’s backing singers who had gone down with a bad case of chicken pox. Inwardly groaning and entertaining a strong desire to strangle blabbermouth Lulu with my bare hands, I watched as Twinkles went visibly green with envy then purple with fury, demanding to be reassured that the ‘conniving bitch’ wasn’t as good a backing artiste as he had been at New Year. Mr Insensitivity cheerfully reported that actually she had been rather good and Cherie had been pleased with her performance buying her a champagne cocktail by way of thanks. Twinks managed to last out until Lulu departed and then he erupted. Queen Rage is not a pretty sight and not for the faint hearted. HRH threw a tantrum that put any reputedly thrown by Sir Elton John firmly into the shade. We had yells, screeches, thrown objects, copious tears and demands for Natalie’s ugly head to be severed and stuck on a pole along with that of Cherie Pie: ‘the cheap tart never bought me a champagne cocktail.’ He ended up coughing so badly he was almost sick. He’s fortunate he’s ill, because at any other time that kind of tantrum would have earned him a trip over my knee for a bloody good smacked bum. He wanted to get dressed and go to the PP, but I soon nipped that idea in the bud. He spent the evening writing an entertaining little story about the hideous murder of a two-bit drag queen slut called, oddly enough, Natalie.

It being Mother’s Day today I invited mum over to ours for lunch. She accepted and gleefully told me that she’s bought Twinks a surprise present, something he’s been after for ages, a Barbie Makeover Magic Deluxe Styling Head. She’d bought it on ebay for an absolute snip. She’s a real sweetheart sometimes is my mother. Twinks will be thrilled. It will cheer him up. We’ve bought her a huge box of Thornton’s chocolates and a bottle of champagne for Mother’s Day. Of course she’ll complain that she’ll put on weight with the chocolates and then bluntly turn down Twinks’ offer to help offset some of the calories by helping her eat a layer or two.

 

 

13th March 2005:

 

Comic Relief

 

Twinkles still isn’t one hundred percent. This chest infection has really taken it out of him. I think the emotional stress of his father’s death and the hassle from our anonymous pest has lowered his immunity.

We enjoyed mum’s visit for lunch last Sunday, though I was irritated when she turned up bringing what amounted to a food parcel with her. She does it all the time. It drives me up the wall. She still doesn’t quite believe that two men living together know how to look after themselves and can actually manage domesticity very well. Twinkles adored the makeover styling head and they both spent several happy hours playing with it, though they did have a brief spat over whether blue eye shadow could ever be blended with pink and not look like something requiring medical intervention. I refused to pass judgment on the matter knowing from experience that it would only bring me grief from one or other or even both of them. I groaned when he began interrogating her over her relationship with Priscilla. She refused to be drawn on the subject, saying coyly that they were friends again and let’s just leave it at that. Twinks didn’t want to just leave it at that. He wanted details, lots of details and of an intimate nature. Only a hard look from me convinced him that it might be wise to back off. He is SO nosey and the questions he asks make my toes curl with embarrassment.

Mum seems to have come to terms with the prospect of dad getting remarried and starting a second family. She asked me to tell him that she wishes him all the best, adding mischievously, along with many sleepless nights. Twinkles sweetly told her that Gill’s taste in soft furnishings made hers seem almost acceptable, almost. He’s a wicked little wind-up merchant at times. Mum got her own back. She thoughtfully asked if he would like her to give him a facial, as being ill had taken its toll on his complexion and aged him by a good five years. She might not be an official drag queen, but she has the bitching abilities to qualify for membership of the club.

 

On Friday night Twinkles wanted to tog up in his finest regalia and go partying at the PP. I was less than popular when I told him I didn’t think he was quite up to it yet. He argued the point saying he felt fine and a night out would do him the world of good. I disagreed saying that spending the night boozing in a smoky atmosphere would do nothing for his chest and, as is my right under the terms of our relationship, I was putting my foot down on the matter. He argued some more, but I kept my foot down and not just because of genuine concerns over his health. I knew that if he did go out he’d go out with all guns blazing in Natalie’s direction. He’d spent much of the week practising bitchy remarks (something he denied) as well as watching all his favourite drag queen videos and making notes of their most cutting jibes. Worse, I noticed that he’d made up the Barbie head to look like Natalie…complete with a realistic bullet hole that would have done a movie makeup artist proud painted into the centre of her forehead. I was not spending an evening keeping two cat fighting queens apart. By way of mollification I told him that if he rested and promised faithfully not to go for Natalie’s throat, or criticise her dress the moment he sets eyes on her, that we’d go to the PP for a few hours on Saturday night.

As it was Red Nose Day we watched the Comic Relief fundraiser on TV. There were some very harrowing scenes. I was almost in tears on more than one occasion. I blame the emotionally evocative music they play in the background. The scenes of suffering are bad enough in themselves, but your response is then honed by the accompanying musical commentary. It’s a kind of exploitation when you think about it, emotional blackmail albeit in a good cause. Twinkles, bless him, was in floods, especially over the terrible suffering of the HIV victims in Africa. He ended up with red eyes as well as a red nose. I had to unplug the phone and confiscate his cell phone in the end before he totally bankrupted us by pledging money. He donated £300 of the £500 his dad had left him in his will. As a footnote I caught him on the computer at half past two in the morning, composing an email to all western governments and Bill Gates, demanding to know why they hadn’t, with all their wealth wiped out or at least substantially reduced world poverty. I have to say some of his language was a bit colourful. It made Bob Geldof sound genteel. I told him to save it to draft and review it in the morning. I then dragged him back to bed.

As promised we went out on Saturday night and to my secret relief Natalie didn’t actually put in an appearance. Rumour had it that she’d gone down with chicken pox. Twinkles sourly mumbled ‘huh, more like cowpox,’ but otherwise was fairly well behaved, though he did have his claws out for Cherie Pie, criticising her frock: too tight across her fat arse making it look like she was trying to anally retain a camel and couldn’t quite manage to keep the humps up there. Her wig looked like a Lily Savage cast off, and her choice of songs, so kitsch and eighties gay anthem, darling, get over it and get with it. All in all he enjoyed himself.

Well, it’s time to lay down the quill for today. We’ve got a visitor due.

 

 

14th March 2005:

 

Hard Labour

 

For the first time yesterday afternoon we were entrusted with the sole care of baby Dominic while his parents had a few hours respite. Twinkles was a bit nervous about it and to be honest so was I, though of course I didn’t let on. I pretended that the prospect of having care of such a tiny fragile thing was a walk in the park and actually that’s where we ended up, walking in the park. Twinkles couldn’t wait to get behind the handle of the pram and even before Karen and Paul’s car was out of sight he had the brake off and was revving it up. My pronouncement that I, as head of household, should get first push was completely ignored. Indeed I got my hand slapped just for trying to tuck the covers around the baby. He made it clear that he was in charge of the pram and all its contents. I had to content myself with walking beside Twinkles as he happily sailed along every bit the proud surrogate daddy showing Dominic off to every person that even faintly glanced in our direction, and coughing loudly to attract the attention of those who didn’t. We visited the duck pond and then the play area where Twinkles sat on a swing with Dominic in his arms, though I did draw the line at him taking the baby on the roundabout. I didn’t want him being sick, Twinks that is, not the baby. He just can’t take anything that spins round. I’ve recently bought a new digital camera and I took some beautiful photographs. I even managed to persuade Twinks to hand Dominic over for a second so that I could be photographed with him.

I insisted on having a push of the pram on the way home, majestically rising above Twinkles attempts to run down my pushing technique and criticise my curb negotiation.

Babies look like they ought to be easy to manage, but they’re not and they’re exhausting because they work on a kind of continuous loop system. No sooner are they fed, winded and changed than it’s time to do it all over again and then again and then some more.

By the time Karen and Paul arrived to collect their son at seven o clock Twinkles was flat out on the couch snoring his head off and the sitting room looked like a herd of wildebeest had torn through it, strewn as it was with baby care paraphernalia. I asked how they’d spent their free afternoon and they both blissfully sighed and replied, asleep! I could appreciate that. Being a parent is not a cushy number. It’s 24/7 hard labour. All the same I felt a small pang as the bundle of joy was reunited with his parents and they took him home. Fed, changed and sleepily content he was adorable. After they’d gone I crashed into a chair with the full intention of joining Twinkles in the land of nod, only no sooner had I closed my eyes than he stopped snoring and mumbled something about being hungry and needing a drink, after all he was still recuperating from illness. Heaving myself back to my feet I staggered to the kitchen. Who needs a baby! I have my own source of 24/7 hard labour.

 

 

21st March 2005:

 

Fly Little Bird

 

Twinkles had a second session with his counsellor today. I was there at his invitation and with the counsellor’s agreement. He likes me to be close by, he says it gives him confidence and also means that when he gets emotional there’s someone on hand who can legitimately give him tactile comfort, something the counsellor can’t do. He talked about what it was like to grow up in a household dominated by a man who considered any opinion other than his own to be invalid, in fact heresy, and how that had made it even harder to try and define himself. From an early age he realised he was different and had instinctively recognised that this difference would not be accepted in his family. He wondered whether his interest in dressing up as a female stemmed from a desire to try and be normal in the same way as his sisters, because if he were a girl then his attraction to boys was perfectly natural. Also his mother seemed to prefer girls to boys. He told the counsellor what I already knew, about how he started to secretly dress up in his mother and sisters clothes when he was about six or seven and then he told her something that I didn’t know. When he was twelve years old his grandfather caught him posing in front of a mirror wearing a bridesmaid dress that his eldest sister had worn to a cousin’s wedding. Twinkles then described how he was subsequently marched into the bathroom and forced to stand under a freezing shower and how whenever he tried to get out his grandfather would shove him back in, telling him he was a dirty pervert who had to be cleansed. In the end he had huddled in a corner of the cubicle waiting for it to be over. He was finally hauled out, but his ordeal wasn’t over. He was forced to stand on a chair in the middle of the dining room, still wearing the wet dress, as his sisters and mother ate dinner and the old man preached on about depravity and sin.

When he finished the tale Twinkles grinned and made a joke of it, saying that at least for once they were all looking at him and not ignoring him and his one regret was not taking advantage of his moment centre stage to do a Judy Garland number. Neither the counsellor nor I laughed, in fact I was fighting an urge to cry. His words might have sounded flippant, but the way his body was shaking told a different story. This was memory at its most painful, little wonder he couldn’t bear to recall it too often.

 

The counsellor asked if his father had been there and Twinkles said no he’d been away on business on that occasion. She asked how he felt about his absence. Twinks was quiet for a while and then shrugged, but she pressed him and he admitted to feeling deeply angry because he hadn’t been there. She asked if part of the anger might be rooted in fear that even if his dad had been present he would have done nothing to save him from his ordeal.

Twinkles suddenly broke down, sobbing that he used to dream that his father would take him away somewhere, but he never had. He’d taken all the crap the old man had flung at him and done little to stop it being flung at his only son. When he confessed to his father about being gay he was instructed not to breathe a word of it to anyone else. A few days short of turning seventeen he was told to pack his belongings and get out of the house and not come back. His father had found him a flat, paid the bond on it and would help him pay the rent, anything rather than have him in the same space.

The counsellor said at least he hadn’t been thrown onto the streets. To her it sounded like a weak man’s way of saving his son from anymore pain and grief at the hands of his grandfather rather than a personal rejection. I think it helped Twinkles to be offered this other perspective of something that had hurt him so deeply. He saw only that he had screwed up a huge amount of courage to come out to his father and had subsequently been cast out.

I think the counsellor was right. I think Twinkle’s dad was in fact setting him free, releasing him, so he could find himself properly. That’s what he meant in his note about if Jonathan had stayed in that house any longer, he would have been lost. It was a case of opening the cage and saying fly little bird.

He showed the therapist his watch, taking it off so she could see the names engraved on the back of it. Pointing at the last name he told her, ‘that’s me, my dad had it specially engraved for me before he died.’ There was a lump the size of a tennis ball in my throat. He looked so proud and yet so very wistful. If only there was some way of re-living childhood and erasing all the painful bits, but then the past helps make the present and who we are is based on what we were. Good and bad together. Perhaps we just need to learn to re-evaluate the bad, to look at it from another angle, forgive what needs to be forgiven and then lay it quietly to rest. He still hasn’t opened the envelope from his father. I didn’t want to press him, especially while he was unwell, but I think he needs to confront it soon.

 

On the way home we passed a car parked by the side of the road with the driver struggling to change the wheel. Twinks gave a shriek that rendered me almost deaf and demanded I pull over and help, as it was Kev! I pulled over and he bounded out, hugging Kev, whoever he was, and chatting ten to the dozen as I rolled up my sleeves and got on with the task in hand. I didn’t mind too much being lumbered with the job of mechanic as he happily socialised. He needed something light and distracting after the heavy session with the counsellor. Kevin seemed a nice sort of lad and thanked us profusely for our help. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but for the life of me I couldn’t place where I’d met him before. I asked Twinkles to put me right as we went on our way. He gave another ear shattering screech and asked if I were going senile. It turns out that Kevin is only that fiend in a frock…Natalie. I almost lost control of the car when he told me. I couldn’t believe it. Twinks had been all lovey-dovey, darling, pleasure to help you, mate, with someone he’s usually plotting to kill. Apparently Kev is okay, he’s a sound lad. It’s just that BITCH Natalie that he can’t stand. Men in frocks! I’ll never understand them.

 

 

27th March 2005:

 

An Easter Parade

 

Twinks has been carried away with wild imaginings this week. As a consequence he was absolute hell on earth to live with. For a start he was excited and nervous about the impending Christening, worrying about whether he’d drop Dominic in the font, or possibly develop a nervous form of tourettes syndrome and start swearing and saying inappropriate things in response to the priest’s questions. And then there was the possibility that God would smite him dead for being a frock wearing homo the moment he set foot on hallowed ground, or even worse, what if he had a road to Damascus moment upon smelling the incense and became a rabid convert with a fervent desire to recant his sexuality and donate all his frocks to Oxfam? There was also a big Easter Parade event at the Pink Parrot lined up for Saturday with the winner being presented with the coveted Miss Springtime Queen title. As you can imagine, the light of competition burned fiercely within him. He spent a lot of time planning his trousseau and being very secretive about it, with very good reason as I later discovered.

 

I woke up at three a.m. last Monday morning to discover him missing from bed. He was downstairs on the phone, chatting to Lulu and plotting ways of finding out what the other girls, especially Natalie, were planning in the way of costumes for the parade. On Tuesday I woke again at three a.m. this time to discover him on the phone to mum grilling her about how his dress was coming along and was she following his design and should he come over and help her sew on the sequins? She said that if he called her at that hour again she’d sew something and it wouldn’t be sequins. On Wednesday I woke at four a.m. to discover him in the sitting room listening to Filthy Gorgeous by the Scissor Sisters, while twirling his hula-hoop around his waist to try and trim it so he looked good in his frock on Saturday. I consequently banned him from using both phone and hula-hoop between the hours of nine p.m. and eight a.m.

On Thursday morning, surprise, surprise, he was tired and grumpy and didn’t want to go to work. He demanded I phone him in sick. I refused. He’s had enough time off lately. He flung a tantrum, closely followed by one of his pink fluffy mules, which struck the skirting board, snapping the heel clean off, which sent him into hyper-tantrum. He bounced up and down (and don’t think I’m exaggerating either, he has no shame when it comes to letting rip) screeching that it was my frigging fault and I’d ruined his favourite footwear. He then flung the other mule, which narrowly missed me and crashed onto the dressing table, sending everything flying. I certainly was not putting up with that kind of behaviour from him. He went to work with a well-walloped backside. I sent him to bed straight after dinner that evening, lights out, no television and no reading telling him that if he insisted on acting like an overtired toddler I was going to treat him like one. He wasn’t suited, but he didn’t argue, not with the ghost of my earlier disapproval still lingering on his bottom.

Being an office worker I was off on Good Friday and so was Twinkles. The Company he works for is very small and the owner is a Methodist who still observes religious occasions, which makes a nice change in these material times. Most retailers remain open through rain, wind, shine and festival. The enforced early night had done him the world of good. He slept right through and was charm itself when he got up, until he went to slip his feet into his pink mules and remembered he no longer had any. We had tears. I comforted him, while gently pointing out that it was his own fault. He pointed out that while he might be stupid he wasn’t a complete cretin and he was fully aware it was his own fault, which made it even worse because he’d really loved his fluffy mules and he was glad I’d spanked him. He’d deserved it for his rotten destructive temper. I’ll buy him another pair in due course. After all, he does look adorable in them. We spent that afternoon at mum’s house. She helped him put the finishing touches to his Easter costume, which I still wasn’t allowed to see. Twinks said he wanted it to be a surprise on Saturday night. It was certainly that.

Twinks started getting ready for the PPQP (pink parrot queen parade) at two on Saturday afternoon, bathing, waxing his legs and underarms (my boy really suffers for his art, my eyes watered in sympathy as he tore the wax strips off) fixing and painting his nail extensions, etc. He surpassed himself with his makeup, executing a subtle pastel version of the Viennese mask around his eyes, enhancing it with glitter and paste jewels. He asked if I’d be an absolute love and go on ahead of him to the PP. He’d follow on in a taxi. I wasn’t too keen, not seeing the point of paying for two taxis when we could pay for just one. He told me the dress he was going to wear was very close fitting and he was going to have to push up, tuck back and secure his tackle and he was frightened that having my gorgeous person in close proximity would cause him to get a hard on and he’d end up shagging his own arse. To keep him happy I duly went ahead on my own.

The PP is colourful at the best of times but on any kind of festive occasion it’s even more so. Some of the Easter hats being sported made those designed by David Shilling and worn by his mother Gertrude look positively tasteful and plain. Boy George would have been green with envy. In fact I think I spotted him squatting under one of the hats. He wasn’t wearing it mind you, but the queen who was didn’t seem to mind, in fact she looked positively delighted. Some of the dresses were a bit garish and over the top to say the least. Big Mary’s skirts were so voluminous that they could have doubled as a venue for a Scissor Sisters concert. Queens aside, some of the other PP patrons looked like extras from the gay porn movie industry. One guy was wearing nothing but a vest-thong thing that was so skimpy it looked like it would fold down into a condom packet. Another was wearing nothing but an array of chains linking his various piercings and was partnered by someone wearing a fireman’s helmet and a pair of work boots, and that was it. I have to say his axe was pretty impressive! Dressed in blue jeans and a white t-shirt I stood out like a sore thumb in all my simple plainness. Still, I got two propositions and an indecent proposal, so I must have looked reasonable enough.

I was starting to get worried about Twinkles and was on the verge of calling him when he arrived. Brian, to whom I’d been chatting, took one look at Twinkles, another at my face, and hastily announced the start of the parade, telling all the competitors to quickly make their way to the stage. Twinkles looked stunning, absolutely jaw dropping. He was wearing an Audrey Hepburn style wig with a very simple curved feather headdress attached. His dress was pale yellow silk, strapless and moulded to his body, flaring out at the bottom into an elegant curved little train. Its only adornment was a sweep of glittering sequins that curved from his right bosom down to the left side of the train, serving to emphasise his figure. His figure, even more than the simple elegance of the outfit, caused a stir. Hourglass didn’t come into it. I could have fitted my hands around his waist it was so tiny. No amount of hula hooping produced a waist of such minute dimension. Natalie arrived just after Twinkles and in comparison looked like an overblown rose. She was dressed in a bright pink creation composed of many ruffles and bows, topped off with a wide brimmed hat stuffed full of flowers. Clever boy that Twinks is, he guessed that every queen in the house would likely be overstated and had opted for an understated style that conversely made a huge statement. I was astounded, but let me tell you, not in a good way. Taking him by the arm I quietly told him that as soon as the parade and judging were over, we were going straight home, regardless of the outcome. He didn’t contradict me. He’d anticipated no less.

To cut a long story short he was voted and crowned Miss Springtime Queen. His face was a picture of triumph and delight, as Brian placed the crown on his head and Miss Cherie Pie presented him with a huge bouquet of flowers, a magnum of champagne, and a gift voucher for a pamper day at a gay beauty salon. He was all dignity and grace, except for a moment just after being crowned when he punched the air and bawled YES in a very unladylike manner. I didn’t allow him much basking time. As soon as he’d had his photograph taken I told him to make his excuses and leave. He complied without argument, which said more about how much pain he was in than about submission to my authority.

As soon as we got outside he clutched at me, begging me to undo him as fast as I could because his lungs felt like they were about to collapse. I just about ripped the damn dress off him, tearing at the leather and steel corset he was wearing under it like a sex mad Victorian disrobing a virgin bride. As soon as it was undone he dropped to his knees gulping in air and then he threw up. I was furious and not only with him but also with whoever had helped lace him into the instrument of torture. No wonder he wouldn’t allow me to see his costume until it was too late for me to prevent him wearing it, or more correctly, prevent him wearing what went under it. I don’t mind him wearing normal girdles and light corsets, but I will not allow him to wear the extreme lace up articles that can qualify as implements for bondage torture in a BDSM dungeon. They’re dangerous. They affect the internal organs, stop you breathing properly, bring on fainting and can crack ribs and consequently puncture lungs with a possibly fatal outcome. He refused to tell me who had aided and abetted him, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work it out. Lulu had arrived only minutes ahead of him and had carefully avoided meeting my eye.

After settling Twinkles in the car I stormed back into the PP and located Lulu. It wasn’t difficult seeing as he was attired to look like a vase of spring flowers, with dozens of huge crepe paper flowers burgeoning from the bosom of his frock. I was angry with him for helping Twinkles do something so dangerous. Grabbing his hand I towed him towards the toilets, only to be intercepted by Brian who discreetly offered me the use of his office to have a quiet word with him. I’m afraid my level of crossness demanded more than words to express it. He got the fright of his life when I bent him over the back of a chair and tanned his backside, while telling him exactly what I thought of his reckless brand of friendship. I doubt it hurt too much, not over his dress, but the shock factor was enough to reduce him to tears. Leaving him seated sobbing on the chair I’d walloped him over I asked Brian to look in on him, and then I took Twinkles home.

The corset had been laced so tightly it left contusions around his ribs, stomach and waist. I coldly informed him that if he ever bought such an item again, he’d be one very, very sorry man, because I’d buy a cane and stripe his backside with it. I put him to bed and the corset in the bin. He tearfully apologised for his deceitful behaviour, saying he had just wanted to be the very best for once and really stand out. Standing out was one thing, I said crisply, but passing out was quite another. We had a big day ahead of us with the Christening and Twinkles would be uncomfortable enough with his bruised ribs, so I told him that we’d defer discussion of the incident until Monday.

 

The Christening took place this morning. The church was packed to the doors, as the Christening itself was being done as part of the Easter Sunday celebration of resurrection and new life. With all the candles and flowers and hymns the atmosphere was overwhelming in its way.

Twinkles was highly emotional and also nervous about being the only gay amongst so many straight people. I pointed out that he wasn’t the only one. He said I didn’t count because I could pass for straight and seemed to have a natural affinity with their strange ways and mannerisms. He let out a shriek when he saw Dominic in his christening robe and the priest in his Easter vestments, indignantly rounding on me for not letting him wear a dress when the baby and the priest were both in drag. There was another sticky moment when the priest, Father Wayne, took Dominic and held him over the font, pouring the cold baptismal water over his head. The baby didn’t like it at all and immediately began to scream and cry. Twinks gave a sharp intake of breath and snatched Dominic away from the priest. Slapping at his hand he called him a brute. He then burst into overwrought tears. I ended up cradling a howling baby in one arm and a sobbing partner in the other. Half the congregation were in shock, the other half in giggling hysterics. Karen and Paul were no help. They hid behind the Baptismal candle until everyone calmed down. Twinkles apologised to Father Wayne for his overreaction. Flinging his arms around him he hugged him, telling him he really liked his dress. The priest, bless him, was a true Christian, and accepted Twinkle’s apology with a smile.

There was a traditional party after the Christening and Twinks enjoyed himself by dissing some of the christening gifts, ‘cheap antimony made in Taiwan, darling, don’t polish it too hard or the silver will rub off.’ Our gift to our godson was a building society account, a baby bond, of which we are trustees. We thought that come twenty-one Dominic would prefer to have a nest egg rather than a silver-plated eggcup. I also bought him a cuddly teddy bear, while Twinkles bought him a huge chocolate Easter egg that I’m certain will be enjoyed more by mummy and daddy than by baby.

As I said, it’s been a long tiring week. I’m shattered and was glad to get home this evening after the Christening, even if it was to find a familiar envelope lying on the doormat. No doubt it will contain an Easter message of peace and love from our adoptive nut case. I couldn’t be bothered to open it. Twinks has toddled off to bed to watch television and stuff his face with his own Easter eggs. He seems to have forgotten about the matter of the corset, but I certainly haven’t.

 

 

29th March 2005:

 

Homemade Is Best

 

Twinkle’s was utterly mortified when he found out that I’d disciplined Lulu. I was unrepentant, especially when it transpired that it was actually Lulu who sold him the wretched corset in the first place. He’s recently become an agent for some alternative mail order company and gets commission on everything he sells. He knows just how dangerous those contraptions can be and he had no business encouraging Twinkles in foolish vanity, especially not for the sake of 25% commission. My only regret was in not pulling down his knickers and spanking his bare backside, an oversight I didn’t repeat when it came to disciplining Miss Springtime. He spent most of Easter Monday in a martyred huff while polishing the faux jewels on his Miss Springtime crown.

The Easter message from our devotee read: ‘the wicked shall not profit by their sin. The time for retribution draws nigh.’ Twinkles gave a great big grin and flinging his arms around my neck said that he and Lulu had profited very nicely from sin. Lulu with his commission and he by winning the crown and the prizes that went with it. On the downside, they’d both ended up getting retribution. He said he was sorry. I kissed him and then shoved the note out of sight. It’s really rather disturbing how almost blasé we’re becoming about them. I suppose it’s a survival mechanism. Easter ended very pleasurably with a packet of Cadbury’s chocolate buttons and a couple of Crème eggs…yum…homemade body paint is so better than the ready bought variety. It’s sticky and messy, but fun!

 

 

1st April 2005:

 

Pity Party

 

The vendetta against us, or whatever you want to call this petty harassment, stepped up a notch yesterday. Someone poured battery acid all over the bonnet of my car. It was not a pretty sight I assure you and neither was my reactive language. It was a real shock, especially as Twinkles and I were laughing about something as we came out of the house on our way to work. It soon wiped the smile off our faces. I was less than courteous to the police, asking whether it was going to have to take one of us getting acid flung in our faces before they made a real effort to catch the person responsible. Not that I let Twinks hear me say such a thing, he’s upset enough as it is. I found him downstairs at two o clock this morning digging away at a two-litre tub of chocolate mint ice cream while watching The Bird Cage with the sound turned down. I got a spoon, turned up the sound, put my arm round him and joined in with the pity party.

The incident has preyed on my mind all day today. I don’t feel like going out tonight, but Twinks is determined to carry on with business as usual…so get up off your bum, Tarn love, and start getting ready (his instruction)

 

 

8th April 2005:

 

Of Lice And Men

 

So, there we were, last Saturday evening, watching Doctor Who on TV. I was being careful not to appear too appreciative of the good doctor, as portrayed by Christopher Eccleston sporting a leather jacket and a sexy Northern accent, lest a jealous Twinks grab the remote and switch over to Ant and Dec on the other channel. They’re sweet in their way, but are mere boys in comparison to our friend from the North. I was reaching for my drink when Twinkles, who had been scratching at his head all evening, suddenly let rip with a shattering scream. I almost had a spontaneous bowel movement. Flicking something from his fingers he leapt to his feet and began yelling about things crawling in his hair. I calmed him down and told him it was probably just dandruff. If only! There was no way to soften it. After examining his head and finding a veritable colony of tiny creatures more repulsive than anything ever encountered by Doctor Who, I told him as calmly as I could that he had head lice.

He went ballistic at the thought of having things living on his body and drinking his blood. Where had they come from? He suspected Lulu of having planted them as revenge for me spanking him (who did I think I was? John frigging Wayne!) I might have guessed I’d get the blame somewhere along the line. He began tearing at his hair, sobbing and demanding that I get rid of them. Then something even worse occurred to him and he clapped a hand to his groin, panic stricken lest they work their way down and begin nibbling at his pride and joy. He might never get an erection again if they interfered with the blood flow down there. I told him that I didn’t think they travelled around the body and that head lice were so called because they lived on your head. I called mum and asked for advice. She told me that modern methods advocated using lots of hair conditioner and a fine toothcomb to get rid of the disgusting beasts. She, however, was of the old school and favoured the chemical approach: get thee to a chemist and buy strong stuff to nuke the little horrors from the face of the earth and scalp. Her comforting postscript was that if Twinks had lice then chances were I had them too and I’d have to do the treatment alongside him.

Fortunately the pharmacy in Safeway was still be open, so I told Twinks I’d go and buy something to eradicate his unwelcome guests. He insisted on coming with me, as he didn’t want to be left alone with the creatures. There was no telling what they’d do if they got him on his own. Poor Twinks. He walked with hunched shoulders in a manner that suggested he had a block of Semtex complete with detonator strapped to his head.

The pharmacist on duty was one of those people blessed with industrial strength vocal chords. His reply to my discreet enquiry was to boom in accents that could be heard at the other end of the galaxy, never mind the shop, ‘AND HOW OLD IS THE CHILD THAT HAS THE HEAD LICE, SIR?’ Twinkles gave me a wild stare that clearly stated ‘don’t you dare tell him how old I am.’ To make matters worse who should turn up, but Natalie’s other half, Kevin. He came on scene just as Foghorn Leghorn whipped a box off the shelf and roared, ‘THIS SHOULD ERADICATE THE LICE IN NO TIME. JUST SHAMPOO IT IN, THEN COMB OUT THE DEAD LICE AND NITS!’ Twinkles fainted, hitting the floor with an almighty crash and bringing down a promotional display of flavoured condoms in the process.

Kevin is really rather a sweet boy. He helped me get Twinks back to the car and assured him he would tell no one about our little problem. Twinks refused to be comforted, telling me that Kev might not say anything, but that evil COW Natalie would spread it all over the PP and beyond.

Getting rid of the lice was a grotesque procedure. The stuff had a truly vile smell and then there was the horrible business of combing out the corpses afterwards. It was a revolting experience. We sat there like two chimpanzees, combing and picking at each other for most of the evening. We wracked our brains to think where we might have picked them up. Seeing as they’re something usually associated with children, I suspected they came from Karen’s little nephew and niece, Michael and Grace. Twinkles had played patiently with both children at the Christening (he’s turning out to be rather good with kids) At one point he was walking around with two year old Grace perched on his hip, because she was tired and getting fractious with all the excitement. She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. Karen later confirmed that Michael, who has recently started school, was the source of the infestation, spreading them to his sister, who spread them to Twinks and thus to me. It makes you appreciate how easily the Black Death got about.

 

On Monday night we attended the theatre to see the gay version of Swan Lake, the ballet that my staff got me tickets for as a Christmas gift. Twinkles ended up disgruntled and outraged on several counts. One, I wouldn’t let him go dressed as a ballerina complete with tutu and tights. I snootily informed him that it wasn’t pop cult like the Rocky Horror Show and therefore did not require the audience to blend in with the cast. It was ballet and conservative, if you set aside the gay issue. He compensated by being extra lavish with the eyeliner and mascara.

To his dismay and the dismay of many in the audience (mainly men wearing tutus) the ballet company, not content with turning Swan Lake into an all male event, decided to break further with tradition and had all the dancers attired in what appeared to be a dumbed down version of the overalls worn by Kwik Fit mechanics. There was not a frothy tutu, tightly fitted waistcoat, white feather, sparkly tiara or pair of bulging tights to be seen anywhere. Twinkles was gutted. I bought him an extra large chocolate ice cream in the interval to try and cheer him up. While appreciating the undoubted skill of the dancers, the production lacked a certain je ne sais quoi, tradition, grace, finesse, just something, and it wasn’t helped when as a finale, a cloud of blown up condoms floated from the rafters. Give me Margot and Rudolph any day of the week. She was straight, he was gay and twenty years younger than she was, they could dance like angels and make you believe they were in love. The only thing I believed after watching this production was that the after show party would probably be something akin to a gang bang from a low budget gay porn movie. Romance, perhaps that was the missing element? Why is there an assumption that being a gay man equates only to being horny and not romantic? Most of the audience could and probably did access porn via the Internet every day of the week. They had come to the theatre for romance, and found it not. Of course I told everyone at work that it had been a wonderful production.

On Tuesday evening I was in the kitchen tidying away after dinner and Twinks was upstairs tidying the bedroom. I was just putting clean cutlery into the drawer when there was an almighty explosion followed by screams from above. I slammed the drawer closed on my hand in fright and consequently fractured my left pinkie. I didn’t feel it at the time. I dashed upstairs yelling Twinks’ name. He was fine, thank God, just shaken. Alas, the Dyson vacuum cleaner was quite dead. It seems he’d been hoovering the bedroom when it suddenly occurred to him that a cunning head louse might have escaped and be holed up in one of his wigs, waiting to strike again. So he decided it would be a good idea to try and hoover it out. Of course, unlike hair, a wig isn’t anchored to a scalp and as soon as Twinks applied the Dyson to his Cher wig, it was sucked straight up, jamming in the hose. Twinks, panicking about his beloved wig, tried to shake it free, knocking over a glass of water on the bedside cabinet in the process. The water found its way up the hose and into the electrics, thus causing the over stressed hoover to explode. After hugging him, because I was relieved he hadn’t been electrocuted, I gave him several sharp slaps on the rump and lectured him about the appropriate and sensible use of household appliances. I then went onto the landing and indulged in some silent, agonised screaming for my finger, which by then was making known its displeasure about being jammed in a drawer. An x-ray confirmed it was fractured. There’s not a lot you can do for a broken finger, except have it taped and try not to knock it against anything.

I can’t complain that life with Twinkles is ever dull, though occasionally it would be nice if I could.