that was Ann’s very long red hair, strands of which turned up all over the flat. It’s hard to describe the full horror of stepping into a bathroom that looks like it was last used by a pony with a hair-loss problem.
Soon it was time for me to visit Ashley in Australia. Now, I do like Australia. It is a very nice place; however, I don’t think anyone could argue that it is nice enough to warrantthe journey. If Australia was where France is I’d go all the time, but it seems perverse to put yourself through airplane hell for days simply to arrive somewhere that is really just America, but with most of the population missing. Most places one visits take on the quality of the centre of the earth simply because you are there. In Australia it is very different. It feels like the edge of the earth, and even Australians who have never lived anywhere else seem to know that they are living very far from the action. Of course none of this mattered to me at the time; I was going to be reunited with the love of my life.
Ashley had promised that by the time I got there he would have moved out of his parents’ house. When I arrived I found that he had been true to his word. He had moved out of their house – into the garage. Oh, he’d done it up with long drapes of material and nice pieces of furniture that he had been keeping in storage, but no amount of interior design could save me from the embarrassment of having his father walking in on us lying in bed while he looked for a hammer or an elusive drill bit. I wasn’t out to my parents, but Ashley couldn’t have been more out to his. He seemed to think that the only way for his parents to prove that they accepted his life and truly loved him was to have them sitting at the bottom of the bed while we had sex in it.
Obviously honesty is a good thing in any relationship, but sometimes it strikes me that coming out to your parents can be quite a selfish thing to do. Kids and their sex lives are never going to be welcome topics of conversation for parents. I remember when, a couple of years after my sister was married, she announced that she was pregnant: we were delighted for her, but there was also a feeling of embarrassmentlingering in the air because we now knew for sure that she was no longer a virgin. As for my sexuality, I felt that Ashley sobbing in front of my visiting parents as he watched Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday and gasping, ‘Her dress . . . her dress is so beautiful,’ was as close to coming out as I wanted to get.
Ashley’s parents, Mr and Mrs Eccles, were very sweet and couldn’t have made me feel more at home. True, I was on a major charm offensive, and made sure to help with chores, drink ‘stubbies’ with the father and compliment the mother profusely on her signature dish, ‘curried sausage casserole’. By the time I left Mr Eccles was patting me on the back and saying that it was like having another son. You can imagine how annoying Ashley found that.
Although we had a few arguments (‘The fucking garage!!’) for the most part we lived well in each other’s pockets. His friends liked me and I was surprised by how much I liked them. I will mention Jenny McCarthy, just because I know she will read this and be very upset not to find her name anywhere. Overall I headed back to London believing that I would spend the rest of my life with Ashley. Had there been gay marriage at the time, I would have been popping the vol-au-vents in the oven and arranging bits of old net curtain on my head, as I had in my former life as a toddler transvestite.
The next few months were spent trying to find a one-bedroom flat for us to share when Ashley got back. Finally I found one a bit further away from Central, over in Queen’s Park. Now I just needed to pay for it. Mike Belben, my catering mentor, had moved to a small restaurant around the corner from Smiths called Melange. It was incrediblybusy, and the waiters got to keep their own tips. I said farewell to
Soon it was time for me to visit Ashley in Australia. Now, I do like Australia. It is a very nice place; however, I don’t think anyone could argue that it is nice enough to warrantthe journey. If Australia was where France is I’d go all the time, but it seems perverse to put yourself through airplane hell for days simply to arrive somewhere that is really just America, but with most of the population missing. Most places one visits take on the quality of the centre of the earth simply because you are there. In Australia it is very different. It feels like the edge of the earth, and even Australians who have never lived anywhere else seem to know that they are living very far from the action. Of course none of this mattered to me at the time; I was going to be reunited with the love of my life.
Ashley had promised that by the time I got there he would have moved out of his parents’ house. When I arrived I found that he had been true to his word. He had moved out of their house – into the garage. Oh, he’d done it up with long drapes of material and nice pieces of furniture that he had been keeping in storage, but no amount of interior design could save me from the embarrassment of having his father walking in on us lying in bed while he looked for a hammer or an elusive drill bit. I wasn’t out to my parents, but Ashley couldn’t have been more out to his. He seemed to think that the only way for his parents to prove that they accepted his life and truly loved him was to have them sitting at the bottom of the bed while we had sex in it.
Obviously honesty is a good thing in any relationship, but sometimes it strikes me that coming out to your parents can be quite a selfish thing to do. Kids and their sex lives are never going to be welcome topics of conversation for parents. I remember when, a couple of years after my sister was married, she announced that she was pregnant: we were delighted for her, but there was also a feeling of embarrassmentlingering in the air because we now knew for sure that she was no longer a virgin. As for my sexuality, I felt that Ashley sobbing in front of my visiting parents as he watched Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday and gasping, ‘Her dress . . . her dress is so beautiful,’ was as close to coming out as I wanted to get.
Ashley’s parents, Mr and Mrs Eccles, were very sweet and couldn’t have made me feel more at home. True, I was on a major charm offensive, and made sure to help with chores, drink ‘stubbies’ with the father and compliment the mother profusely on her signature dish, ‘curried sausage casserole’. By the time I left Mr Eccles was patting me on the back and saying that it was like having another son. You can imagine how annoying Ashley found that.
Although we had a few arguments (‘The fucking garage!!’) for the most part we lived well in each other’s pockets. His friends liked me and I was surprised by how much I liked them. I will mention Jenny McCarthy, just because I know she will read this and be very upset not to find her name anywhere. Overall I headed back to London believing that I would spend the rest of my life with Ashley. Had there been gay marriage at the time, I would have been popping the vol-au-vents in the oven and arranging bits of old net curtain on my head, as I had in my former life as a toddler transvestite.
The next few months were spent trying to find a one-bedroom flat for us to share when Ashley got back. Finally I found one a bit further away from Central, over in Queen’s Park. Now I just needed to pay for it. Mike Belben, my catering mentor, had moved to a small restaurant around the corner from Smiths called Melange. It was incrediblybusy, and the waiters got to keep their own tips. I said farewell to
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