Which brings us to the period of time between Pride and the anniversary of Ross moving in to live with me. A sort of interim period. It wasn't quite without incident last year (well, I did the bad thang with Glen - that being, incidentally, the last time I've done the bad thang with anyone other than Ross - I'm trying to work out whether or not that is a record for me within a relationship) and this year has been quite eventful also.
Sunday after Pride what you normally want to do is chill out. Me I was up early
into the hire car, take Chris off to the Tube
station (he leaves us with some fabby
Swiss chocs as a prezzie - kisses to Chris) and then off to collect
Robert before whizzing round the M25 to my
sister Linda's to celebrate my mum's 70th
birthday with the family. I mean which self-respecting mother would have such an
important engagement the day after Pride. Mine.
It all went very well. Mum liked her presents. She got about the right amount of attention - too much and she's uneasy, too little and she feels neglected. There were no bad moments. Well, maybe two. Robert recovered well from being asked if he'd ever thought of joining the Police Force. Linda was most discomposed by talk of what I'd been doing the day before. Everyone else round the table was more or less fine. Ian, Linda's man, certainly seems to have no problems. My sister? Well, you'd have thought an ants' nest had just erupted in her drawers.
Funnily enough Ross gets grief from his sister Megan, whilst her man, Jamie, is quite OK. He's been in the army. Ian spent time pounding the beat for the Met. Maybe there's something to be said for putting men in uniform after all.
Ross has begun work at Pizza Hut for the summer and may keep it on to
bring in a bit of money over the winter too. I can tell you all that he looks
delightful in the Pizza Hut corporate kit. Pictures may be forthcoming if I can entrap
him in some way.
During the week, Ross and I took a big step together and went out buying joint furniture - to whit a wardrobe and a matching chest of drawers for the spare bedroom/study. When you add to that the fact that my pension company have accepted that Ross can be the main beneficiary if I die in service as they call it and are sending me the proposal forms to name him formally, you'll see that things are getting serious.
A large work meeting took up most of Friday afternoon. Little was gleaned about the future but at least there's the reassurance that nothing too dramatic will happen in the near future. That was semi-good news. The better news I received that morning was that I don't have prostate cancer.
I've not said anything about it in the Journal before because, well, there wasn't really anything to say until the results of the tests came back. I'd had an ache in my balls and around my general lower abdomen for some time - actually when I started thinking about it, for a very long time. I didn't think very much of it. Heck, every male gets the occasional ball ache and I've been checking myself in the bath for any lumps or bumps for year now. The real frightener was when I started coming blood. And even then I wasn't at all sure when that had started. I mean how often do you see your own sperm what with condoms, mouths, Kleenex and the light being turned off. That morning, seeing the bright, red spunk against the cold, white porcelain of the bathroom sink was a total shocker I can tell you.
Anyhow, it all seems to have turned out to have been a bout of an NSU causing the aches (goodness only knows how I came by that but then it is non-specific) and that's been cleared up by antibiotics and a burst blood vessel round by the prostrate (where there are apparently a multitude of small veins that can rupture at any time with little or no danger) and that's cleared up of its own accord.
There's been some weeks of mild anxiety in the household, it has to be said. However,
some good has inevitably come out of it. Ross has been wonderful and held my hand when
we went to the GU clinic; I've had my HIV status confirmed as negative; I've started the
course of Hep B immunisation injections I'd always promised myself; and I've had an
ultrasound done on my gonads and things. It's just like on Casualty when they're
checking to see if the baby is alright. The doctor was really nice. She warned my that
the lubricant might feel cold. I told her that gay men are used to the shock of cold
lubricant. Then she
manipulated my gonads with this
gizmo that looked as though she was checking for a bar code in the supermarket queue.
Meanwhile, up on the screen came a snowy, fuzzy image of my reproductive bits. Again
the doctor was very tolerant when I told her that I could see the head.
Anyhow, there's nothing
down there that can't be accounted for. Phew!!
A large pro-fox hunting protest took place in Hyde Park on Saturday. This was the countryside lobby telling the world how the fabric of the nation would be torn apart if people weren't allowed to chase around the countryside on horses looking for foxes to kill. I have to say that I am agin it. If it's a sport then it should be banned as sports are fun pursuits that shouldn't lead to death. If it's a necessary culling of vermin, then there has to be more efficient ways of doing it. As for the loss of country identity, I'd love to know where these people were when the countryside was being decimated by factory farming and why they weren't protesting at the desecration of the hedgerows and the murder of the soil with the use of organo-phosphates. A certain lack of consistency is noted.
Incidentally, viz a viz the transport chaos at the end of Pride at Clapham Common... it's sort of obvious but the situation would be more than a little eased if the event were to be held in Hyde Park as it was many moons ago. However, the Royal Parks decline to allow the event to take place there as it is not designated a family event. It would seem that chasing terrified animals and allowing them to be ripped apart by dogs is deemed a family event. Another certain lack of consistency is noted.
I certainly wasn't present at the event. Instead, I was in the depths of Holland Park listening to Iris, Mascagni's little (these days) performed opera. I have to say that it was a treat and deserves much wider exposure than it has been granted heretofore. I won't claim great things for it but, melodically and dramatically, it more than grabbed the attention for a couple of hours or more. Let's face it, I was hung over from the night before and it was a hot and humid afternoon. All the elements were cast against its favour but I was captivated throughout.
Aside from an important meeting on the Tuesday morning whose ramifications will rumble for months yet, I spent most of the next week either preparing for or attending a training course in Oxford. Actually, I'm going to be spending quite a bit of time in that city of expiring dreams over the next six months which is typical since James has just graduated and won't be around any longer.
One main bit of news from the outside world that filtered through was the slaying of Gianni Versace. It must have been a slow news day because the papers were plastered with it. That and the fact that they think that a rent boy was involved. So they have celebrity, violent death and illicit sex in the one story.
Colin came down on Friday night for a short stay. I cooked on the first night and managed something tolerable. On Saturday, we went to the Trattoria La Ruga where Phil and Chris have already eaten. Colin was most impressed. This is praise indeed and now becomes a standard part of the Walthamstow experience.
During the day, we'd taken a trip to the Lakeside shopping complex near the Dartford Tunnel. I had the intention of buying some good quality pots and pans under Colin's watchful eye and did just that. We also bought some other odds sods, ate a not too wonderful meal in the local Thank God It's Friday, did the sales, didn't buy anything more but did spend a lot of time oggling the tremendous amount of young male talent that was on parade. I was tempted by one of the sales in which there was lots of Versace couture going cheap. In retrospect, I should have bought lots and sold it on at a profit - I could have made a killing.
Oh, dear. 