Happy New Year

Yes Gentle Reader I fear I have neglected you for most of January. But the Cheerful Fairy is back in Strumpetville, and more than happy to discuss my favourite subject – Me.

Have I been idle? No, far from it!

I have submitted by dissertation proposal form to my university for my research project; I’ll write more about that soon – my first meeting with my department head is on Wednesday, and while alongside the regular study and work it will be a big challenge, it’s a topic I’m very keen on – yes it is gay themed – and I’m eager to get started.

I have started my medication regime and I’m back at the gym so I’m pleased to write my health is getting back on an even keel. My New Year diet is going well, although I fell off the wagon rather at the weekend for a friend’s birthday.

On top of this I have been applying for new jobs and had an interview last Friday – I’m pretty sure I didn’t get the job but hey-ho it’s all good experience.

Work continues busy and I’m eager, obviously, to move on to my next career step. However, while I’m there I’m still an active member of the LGBT group and we’re working to celebrate gay history month in February.

Fella continues fine and we are as strong as ever. Domestic bliss reigns. We socialise with our friends; we enjoy each other’s company; the wedding planning continues at its slow pace. We have our synergy – he cooks, I eat; I diet; he loses weight.

There are down sides. Fella’s mother is increasingly unwell. Her liver cancer is terminal and over Christmas it was clear she is going downhill. Caring for her will be a big part of our year. However long she lasts – and of course we will have to think about changing the date of our civil partnership to take into account, bluntly, how long she will be around and healthy enough to attend.

All in all there’s lots going on in 2012, and lots will happen. So, to finish off this breathless guide to an average man’s life, I have decided simply not to have New Year’s resolutions. Nope. Why write something down I can look at in 12 months and go “ah. Forgot about these…”? Instead I will keep trying to be the best me I can possibly be. This will include resisting the temptation to set fire to my office.

Update

I’ve been away for some time gentle reader, and for that I’m sorry. Time has caught me up… but on the plus side that gives me a fair bit to blog about.

And Tuesday night is my quiet night in night so blog I shall!

First – my health. Well, I’ve had lots and lots of hospital appointments. It seems I need to be put on medication, but in the meantime I’ve been enrolled in a medical research project which, before my treatment kicks off proper, will see me being the big pink in cushion for a while longer.

*sigh* I suppose it comes to us all sooner or later but I have to accept that I’m getting a bit too fat and old to be the life of the party – and such parties we have in Strumpetville to be sure – and to demonstrate the fact I went on my work Christmas party on Friday and ended up getting so naughtily drunk as fell over on my way home (oh the shame) and have damaged my knee. No more runs at the gym for the time being…

Well, I can give up on the diet for the Christmas season although I will have to get back on the horse with a vengeance in the New Year. To help, and linked with my healthcare going forward, I plan to go booze free for January (after the first of course!).

Second – work. Busy as always. I’ve decided I really do need to move on but my studies are preventing me from really focussing on it for the time being. The Christmas party was fun though. It turns out a huge proportion of my Directorate are gay too. Surprisingly my boss is – I didn’t really have a clue, but great news. As are the two other people who revealed their orientation as the evening wore on. It means of the 60 of us (up from 19 when I first started!) at least 20% are ‘family’. And I knew plenty of others outside my team who are too.

I’m part of the LGBT network and the number of gay people I know of suggests there are massive under-reporting of sexual orientation. I can understand that; but equality legislation means it’s important for people to be open –the more of us there are the greater the obligation on our employer to recognise our contribution and support our identity.

Third – studies. Well, they do keep me busy but I’m loving it. Well into my second and final year and I look forward to starting on my dissertation. Over the next three months I will be doing a mini project of my own choosing, and as you might expect the topic is gay-themed.

Essentially my hypothesis is that men in civil partnerships (perhaps the theme is personal too?) display less risky sexual behaviours than single gay men; perhaps fewer sexual partners; perhaps me likely to practise safe sex; perhaps more frequent HIV testing. At its core my hypothesis might be said to be: equal rights have positive health benefits.

The data I plan to use is held by Sigma Research, who do the annual gay men’s sexual health survey. They seemed really positive about my proposal and posited some interesting challenges to my hypothesis. Huge caveat – they might not give me the data – but as a fellow academic and massive gay, well, we can hope?

Older

I’m 34, apparently well past an age where I could respectably go out clubbing or on the pull in Soho. That’s fine, I have my Fella and with the diet and exercise regime I get compliments about my figure, my arms, etc - which is, perhaps not surprisingly, nicer than the small shreds of validation that come from sleeping around (and yes that is a large part of why I did it. D’uh!).


Still, 34 is a funny time of life. I love being in my 30s, almost as much but in a different way to which I enjoyed being 16, 17 and 18. But what is it? Less than half-way, but more than a third. I’ve been a child longer than I’ve been an adult, but I’m not quite fully grown up (as my bank manager well knows).

In the last few weeks I’ve been described as an older man, by a guy in his mid-20s! And be flattered that I look like I’m in my mid-20s, by a guy a couple of years older than me. Yes, each hoped flattery would get them everywhere, but still…

It seems in some respects time has caught me up. I’m writing this before telling many of my close friends – some of whom read this, I am pleased to write - or Family (though Fella I told straight away).

Last Tuesday I was an unwell fairy, so got some medical advice from NHS Direct (a telephone based free healthcare advice service) and they recommended, to my surprise, I attend my nearest A&E (emergency room).

Well, speed and efficiency were certainly the order of the day. Although it took eight hours in total I was hooked up to more machines and devices than I expected; and yours truly was turned into a little pink pin cushion…

So here it is.

My brain isn’t working as it should. Blood tests show its receptors are not picking up as many hormones as it should. Its chemistry is unusual. Sometimes people with altered brain chemistry have a mental health problem, apparently sometimes not – or not just that.

My brain tells my body to produce stress hormones like adrenaline but doesn’t mop up the after effects. It seems, to put it bluntly, I suffer a constant stress hangover where different parts of my body go out of hormonal sync… the result; irregular heartbeat for a start. Ouch.

It feels weird that my behaviours and reactions are sometimes not my own – and I didn’t know it. Or maybe that’s just how “I” feel.

How do I manage this? Well apparently I have to give up caffeine, chocolate, salt, reduce (not give up, thank fuck) alcohol and carefully avoid the gym. Fortunately sex wasn’t mentioned.

My consultant gave me a lot of information about some unique stress management techniques; and I’m going to go in further tests in a couple of weeks.

It’s weird; how do you react when confronted by things like this? I immediately went out to a comedy show (Fella and I were planning to celebrate a friend’s birthday anyway) and managed to cheer myself up. And I have been carefully ignoring my consultant’s advice about my diet.

Well, from now on time to be good. Darn. Strumpetville will never be the same again. And I suppose that’s the difference between 17 and 34.

Des and Troy

Youth and beauty… those are the name of the big gay game, no? Well, that and having a great big… zest for life.


Well, I’ve been working on the youth and beauty thing and notwithstanding my inability to turn back the hands of time I think I’m doing OK.

As always, it is through others I seek my validation… and after quite while of dieting and exercising things have started to happen.

Yes gentle reader – it is true. People have begun the rippling gorgeousness of the Cheerful Fairy. I mean – wow. Who would have thought it? Here I am – being complemented on my hard work by other gay men!!!

I guess it first started when we were in the cottage in Herefordshire and the other gay man, apart from me and Fella (he deserves a greater epithet than gay-man#3 to be fair, but needs must), commented on my nice arms. Me! Putting on a gun show, eh?

Since then I’ve had colleagues comment on how much weight I’ve lost, and friends on how buff I’m becoming. Well, my vanity needs little feeding to grow and grow, so I take it all with a pinch of salt but I must admit it is nice in particular to get noticed by other gayers.

I’ve lost about 7 lbs (3kg) but I’ve been doing lots of weights alongside my running and swimming, and I must admit it is a huge motivator to know it’s paying off.

Alright… maybe it’s a bit wrong of me to subscribe even in part to the more superficial aspects of gay life. But, after many years of just not looking after myself as part of my closeted life; and then to get so ill and to lose so much weight that is regained as, basically, lard… I’m quite proud of myself and – frankly – being an introvert the confidence boost is appreciated.

On Wednesday I’m going, alone, to gay networking event in Soho called Village Drinks and I would never DREAM of going there unless I felt in some way I could hold my own.

I’m going to keep working on my figure until I go back to college in October – only a few short weeks to get as much out of myself as possible. After that I will maintain my improvements, but can’t realistically go to the gym six times a week, attend classes, do my homework and work.

Speaking as someone who likes his carbs and it engaged to a world-class chef getting to this stage has not been easy. And the time limits mean I can’t lose too much weight. But the object is not to be a muscle-mary or try and be the twink I never was. It’s to feel good about myself. And to have everyone in Strumpetville feel good about me too!

Wedding Plans

We've had a bit of bad luck recently, Fella and I. I mean, in the last week, we've been robbed; my laptop completely packed up, taking with it everything from my holiday photos to my CV (I have a shiny new one now though :-) ); part of the bathroom ceiling fell in for reasons best known to itself...

Sadly the worst thing is Fella's mother has been diagnosed with inoperable cancer. She has suffered with MS for a while, and has had problems in that area because of that for a while. So no-one took any notice of the jaundice and the weight loss until it was too late. Liver cancers tend to be inoperable and are peculiar in that chemotherapy doesn't work on them. The treatment is a transplant, but you can't give immuno-suppressants to someone with MS so that's out. Recently a range of wonder-drugs have come on the market that will ensure her liver continues to function and may co-incidentally shrink the tumour. But even under ideal circumstances a primary liver tumour has a less than 20% survival rate after a year.

In Fella's mother's case they are talking two years but knowing this illness I wonder if six to nine months is nearer the mark. Dark I know but Fella and his family are dealing with this in perhaps a very English upper middle-classed way. Putting the best possible gloss on it, changing the subject, and having a nice cup of tea.

What I wanted to post about, gentle reader, was how Fella and I are advancing our wedding plans. Perhaps post a picture of the post-it notes covering the back wall of our second-bedroom cum home-office. Perhaps my tentative day dreams on what to put on my our wedding list.

Instead, our plans are in disarray. I do not complaint, of course; the circumstances cannot be helped. But what we really are looking at is getting wed very quickly, perhaps in the next few weeks - or months.

In the separate-but-equal* world of marriage we have in Strumpetville a civil partnership can be entered into without even being in the same room - one fills in a form, the other fills in his at a time convenient to him (or her of course). No ceremony required though the government has helpfully handed down a "form of words" if we really must. The logistics of the thing would be relatively simple. The issue at hand of course is getting CPd for the right reasons, at the right time. Our reasons for going for May 2013 were simply - where we met, when we met, but after my masters is finished (it was tiresomely short-sighted of love to come during exam season). Both of those options would be sacrificed...

Am I reluctant to hurry into a CP? Yes. Especially because of someone else, regardless of the tragedy. Because a long engagement suited me. Because what happens next when you are married - mortgages and pensions and the like - I'm just not prepared for.

But here we are, in a world or turmoil. Once we have a detailed prognosis and we can be sure whatever we do meets Fella's mother's needs and capabilities, we can make our decision. Still, I do want to make sure it is right for us too and that I think - deciding what is for the best for him will really be hard for Fella.

If I May

“I have only one ambition in life: to achieve my many goals” - Homer Simpson                       

The beginning of May catches me in a despondent mood, gentle reader. It is exam season, plus post holiday poverty is biting, PLUS Fella and I are having home related nightmares in the things-falling-apart (expensively) sense.

Nevertheless, I like to think I’m the kind of person who looks at the positive side of things, light at the end of the tunnel etc.

So.... here we are a third of the way through the year and time to take stock.

Ambition. My first (post graduate) boss – so long ago we were allowed to smoke in the office, that’s how old the Cheerful Fairy is – called me ambitious. She was a scholar of English and she thought I didn’t get she was using the older, pejorative definition.

Well, I am ambitious. And stupid in a clever sort of way, and quite lazy in the sense delayed gratification was never my thing. Hence Hogzilla Hyde to the Cheerful Jekyll!

Why the downer on myself? No-one in all Strumpetville to blame but myself of course. Story of my life.

I really dislike letting myself down but as I’ve grown I recognise the symptoms and react to my own foolishness more speedily than before. As my current boss put it recently, I am “very self aware”.

What to do, then?

I have disparate ambitions indeed and it’s time to remind myself of the need to focus!

• Body I want to be thin and fit! I have a good body, but it’s wrapped in the products of booze and chocolate. Plus a stressful full life with an equally full social life does take its toll on the skin and hair of a mildly frumpy guy approaching his mid 30s. So – time to take care. Be healthy, dress well – no excuse for going out looking or being any less than my best.

• Mind I want to get the best possible degree I can, to show that I can – I mean, I have degrees and qualifications and a career and all sorts of things, but I never had to try before. And (as if that’s not enough) I want the assurance consciously addressing all the flaws I feel I have might being; the self confidence, I-am-right-after-all, beating the dissenting voice in my head...

• Soul I want to be a worthy fiancé! A better friend, bother, son... this is an area of my life of which you will have read little and with good reason. I am an introvert, but more than that I should stop using that as an excuse to take how lucky I am for granted.

So then what does good look like?

In a year’s time

• I will be sailing through my exams
• I will have been promoted
• I will have a toned body, dress better, have better skin and hair
• I will feel worthy of my friends
• I will have saved some (more) money

And this time you get to hold me to it!

The demon drink

You will recall, gentle reader, that the thing (apart from my quiet inability to manage any relationship) that brought Fella and I closest to breaking up was his drinking. Without refreshing too many dark memories, there were plenty of occasions where the night was spoiled by Fella drinking himself into unconsciousness.

It wasn't just the drinking per se, it was the risk he put himself, and sometimes me, at by being out of control. Sometimes, sadly, it just isn't safe for a gay man to be totally arseholed with drink. If he of we can't run away from danger, then the consequences don't bear thinking about it.

Now, after an incident when I was attacked at home I turned to the bottle quite heavily, but that wore off as time went on. Still, I can understand the draw of drink if you’re fragile or if, like Fella, you have a mental health problem. But, the reality is, I’m not a saint and I’m still not sure I could cope with a destructive influence in my life like a partner with a dependency.

We came close the breaking point, he and I, dealing with this issue. Friends counselled me in a variety of options. ‘A’ suggested alcoholics anonymous, as partners can find it helpful too. I seriously considered it.

He promised he would do anything to keep us together, and in many respects he has been as good as his word. The bargain we struck was that if he behaved himself on social occasions he could drink as much as he likes at home. And that is broadly what has happened.

You asked recently how he is managing on the booze. There’s no easy way to spell it out; he probably puts away 150 units a week; the recommended maximum for men in 28 (I think). So he drinks an awful lot. But he manages it. He never misses work; he doesn’t stay up into the early hours drinking the place dry; he gets plenty of sleep and eats his meals. Some days he chooses not to drink at all. So... good then [?].

Not perfect, not by a long way. But this is Fella, who wants to build a life with me, build his career, live and enjoy his life. He’s a heavy drinker – but thinking as I type I realise the distinction between someone who happens to drink a lot and someone who behaves destructively. And being able to make that distinction helps me see the problems we had are solved.

The biggest challenge for me, where we are now, is keeping my own consumption at a reasonable level. With my ongoing struggle to get my weight down and my health up, plus the sheer demands placed on my time by work and study. The next biggest challenge is vigilance, as I find it difficult still to trust him to control himself in social situations.

Nevertheless, Fella made the effort and he did it for me. How could I do anything other but love and appreciate him for it? It’s hard to imagine anyone else I’ve been with making one-hundredth of the changes he makes for me, without demanding a lot in return. You see how lucky I am?

Hogzilla Returns

I've put on weight gentle reader; there's no denying it. Not lots, but it's all fat. Boo!

It's not really surprising. The holiday in Germany – bratwurst, beer and dumplings oh my – didn't help; plus I wasn't taking much exercise over there. Also, Fella is an in insanely good cook. I'm not bad, I will admit – but I may as well serve up a raw stoat with swastikas shaved into its fur. Finally, since I got better, my body no longer enjoys calories solely from the whooshing noise they make as they passed through une system digestif grand vitesse.

The thing about living with a great cook is a routine of rowing, running, swimming and resistance training is only enough to stand still. And the thing about yo-yoing in weight due to my illness is I lose rippling gorgeousness and gain lard. So... Hogzilla remains Hogzilla. I've almost come full circle; although I'm still about 15kg/33lbs less than I was when I came out. Now that's progress!

Well, what can be done to tone up? Diet and exercise of course! Well, not just that. There are wider issues at stake here. I've been feeling a bit like a shambling oaf this last few weeks and think I need a general tune up to shake off that frumpy feeling.

Once I've toned up a bit more I can look at other areas of my life. So first things first:

• Running twice a week after work with friends and colleagues. We're up to eight km (five miles) per run. Our little group has become the organisation's official running club so there's quite a few of us lumbering around the parks of Strumpetville now
  
• The gym three times a week – resistance training to add the soupcon of rippling gorgeousness
  
• Swimming and using the rowing machine to do a few km as well.
  

Plus; lifestyle.

• Booze – only on Tuesdays (I love Better Off Ted) and Fridays/Saturdays – and not more than 10 units a week regardless.
  
• Low calorie! Sorry Fella, gourmet you may be, but my wobbly bits are getting too wobbly.
  
• Not letting work pressures disrupt my routine.
  

That should do it, though I'm realistic enough to know there won't be speedy results. What I really want is to feel a bit better about myself. The heavens may well be slack jawed in wonder at my temerity, given how lucky I have been over the last couple of years, with my relationship, career and so on. Nevertheless, it isn't nice to feel frumpy and unattractive a lot of the time, especially after having made so much progress. And therefore things need to change. And making the change is half the battle, no?

INTJ

I am an introvert (INTJ is my Myers Briggs type), I always was. One of the main things I wondered about, coming out, is whether I would become more extroverted as a proper gay! Well, the answer to that is yes and no. Before and after personality tests show I am much less introverted than I was before – but not quite tipping the balance. And, as with so many things, rather than being a cure for all my ills, coming out exposed my... flaws... much more clearly.

My problems communicating etc I don't intend to revisit here; there's enough of that on this here blog. One thing I have noticed though is that at my most ill I did become very withdrawn and really just wanted to be on my own (well, that may not be too unusual)... I really retreat into my shell. Classic introversion – I need to be alone to recharge my batteries.

Looking forward, living with Fella would on the face of it not seem to be the best way of meeting that need for me time or me space. However, one of the biggest challenges in finding that time and space has been the need to accommodate Fella when he spends those three of four nights a week with me. Sharing a home will give us both a chance to do the things we need and want to do. I can, for example; stay late in the office; go to the gym; take some work home; go for a drink and still see Fella in the evening. Naturally I can't do that now.

Does that read selfish, gentle reader? I love my man, sure enough – but having to by Mr Happy Fun Cheerful Fairy at all times isn't very easy for me. Being able to go into another room lets us both get on with living.

Things are going absolutely fine at the moment for him and me, and moving in together – I am hopeful – will help. Ironically both Fella and I have been quite unwell over the last week; I get some antibiotics to help me shift my illness, and Fella comes down with food poisoning! On the plus side that means neither of us can drink. On the other hand it means we haven't had much fun together over the last week or so. Again, living together would make that a bit easier – helping us support each other whilst having the freedom to be apart if we need to.

We've begun looking for flats, but without much luck so far. Fortunately there is no rush for either of us to move as such so we can look for as good a place as we can manage. But we are hoping to move any time soon, and then the pressure will be eased; no longer will I have to compromised between the private me, the public me and the private/public us.

Engrenage

Well, gentle reader, I think it is safe to say that the Cheerful Fairy is Frumeplla no more. Of course my rippling gorgeousness could use some work; always room for improvement, dontyaknow, etc.

I refer of course not only to my efforts to improve my physique, bowl over the residents of Strumpetville with my lovliness... yeah, anyway, I refer not only to that; I refer to my wider health.

Since a week last Sunday my illness returned with a vengeance: I lost three pounds over the course of the weekend, and felt pretty run down since then. It's calmed down but co-incidentally I had a hospital appointment last Thursday to follow me up.

There is something rather special about having a good doctor, and you may take good to mean intelligent; erudite; interested; or just good at lateral thinking. However, the nice lady who saw me had clearly decided this is a bit too much and the best thing to do would be to do a series of tests from scratch. Hence I spent much of the morning having blood tests and other... examinations, going round and round the hospital beaten only to the various departments by the electronic missive explaining what is required.

And, yes, and at the end of it all I have – Te Deum to be composed in honour of this momentous occasion – a diagnosis.

Intestinal spirochaetosis.

Yum.

Spirochetes are a nasty class of bacteria not routinely tested for, and as an anaerobic bug, not prone to surviving in samples exposed to air. Hence it can be hard to find. It is a class of bacteraemia that counts among its number humanity's friends, syphilis and lime disease. It is an opportunistic infection and will quite often attack people with HIV, or other sexually transmitted diseases. Although it is not sexually transmitted the bacteria are much more common among gay men (30 to 50%) than straight men (two to five per cent) for reasons unknown to science!

Well, the next step is to get some antibiotics (metronidazole in my case) for a short while and with luck my roller coaster love affair with Armitage Shanks will be over. Interestingly – in a Freudian there-are-no-accidents kind of way – I can't drink whilst on the antibiotics and for a short while afterward. That ought to be interesting...

Anyway, once I'm better I need I think to review my healthy living regime. I wasn't able to go to the gym whilst very ill and of course as before it consumed my body mass rather than body fat, so I'm perceptibly weaker than I was before. Still, it is good to take the opportunity to capitalise on the fact my ribs are showing through. I want my flat tummy!

Overall it's good to have a diagnosis; though on some level the amount of stuff to deal with right now approaches new heights or tiresomeness. I look forward to it being over... and thus this is progress of a sort.

What’s next...

Some things, once said, cannot be unsaid and cause such damage there is no going back.

So Fella made his choice; the booze over me. Well, it's a decision and – on every level – I asked for it. What else could I do? I asked Fella for his keys and advised him to contact some friends he could stay with. When I got home I packed up his stuff and put it to one side, in preparation for handing it over in over the next couple of days. I went on Facebook to update my relationship status, but somehow it felt so... final, I couldn't quite do it. I texted some friends for a bit of short term sticking-plaster support.

The Gardener, unaware of the situation, let Fella in. Rather than have him wander the streets in a drunken state I decided to let him sleep on the floor. And on Saturday morning he went to get his hair done, and to give me some space, to think about whether we should talk when he got back.

So we talked.

Fella said my new willingness to just end the relationship was, as he put it, a 'wake up call' and he was willing to go tee-total if that was what it takes for our relationship to work. I expressed my doubts about his ability to do this, as I'd asked him to moderate his consumption in the past. And in fact I would have never asked him to stop drinking all together; but I would ask him to bear in mind how much he's eaten (or not); how much other people are drinking; how he will get home safely... As an aside my illness has moved to a point where I shall soon be unable to drink alcohol at all, but that I shall post about shortly.

What needs to be worked on is the underlying cause of his drinking. What makes a man so insecure that he turns, through drink, from someone acknowledged as charming, intelligent, giving and witty, into someone universally acknowledged as a bit of a dick. What also needs to be worked on is how I deal with things and how I can support him going forward. What needs to be restored is a level of trust; we can still have a good time together, we can enjoy ourselves.

Where we left it is that we're still very much together, and still planning to move in together, but this endless cycle has to... end. Fella, it seems, wants to be happy but in a world where happiness is the default and attractive though that is we're in a place where I think it has to be worked at quite hard now.

I imagine it seems, at least a little bit, to you gentle reader like I'm flogging a dead horse. But I see quite the reverse. We have, admittedly through a crisis, reached a point where we have agreed our problems and agreed to work through them, together. No guarantees of course, but our relationship is built on a strong foundation and we have a real love I would not want to throw away. I'm not afraid of being single, but I also know how I feel when Fella walks into a room.

So what's next? Stay tuned...

C2H5OH

Fella and I have had our disagreements in the past, but they tend to centre on two things. The first is my inability to communicate well. I get terribly frustrated and this results in huffy and pouty behaviour that's not very nice for either of us, and eventually it boils over into big arguments and hurt feelings.

The other is Fella's alcohol consumption. It's been an area of concern for some time. Since long before our anniversary I got terribly anxious about going out with him where alcohol was involved. Ironically because I was unable to articulate my concerns the difficulties in our relationship were based on a positive feedback cycle where ultimately the more frustrated I became the more he drank in response until we couldn't have a good time going out at all. It's been that way for a while now, until things recently came to a head.

We went to see A Beautiful Thing at the theatre on Wednesday and the 15 or so of us who went all agreed that it was an excellent and well staged play. The evening in fact was marred by just one thing, and I think you can guess what it is gentle reader.

In order on Wednesday Fella drank the following:

• A bottle of red wine, by himself at home while getting changed before going to the theatre
  
• One pint of beer with the group before the play started
  
• One large red wine at the interval
  
• One pint of beer and one large red wine, in the pub after the theatre
  
• Finished up with a line of shots of unknown number.
  

All told not less than 25 units of alcohol. The rest of us had two or three pints; nine or 10 units at most. He had eaten, all day, two ryvita. You can imagine the state he was in...

The absolute worst thing, though, is the shots. He was with the group, talking away. And he turned to me and said he was going to get a diet coke. Of course I was fine with this, and in fact quite relieved. But he was gone for a while.... so when I went to find him he was at the bar, alone, knocking back the shots he lined up. He had lied to me.

I am concerned about how much he drinks; his family is; his friends are; his colleagues are. There isn't an alcohol dependency at work here. Fella can go a very long time without drinking at all. But his inability to enjoy a social situation without drinking to excess had at that point gone just to far.

Of course this led to a terrible row over the next couple of days and ultimately, piss poor communicator that I am, on Friday night it boiled down to a simple choice; the booze, or me.

And he choose booze.

Better late than never

One of the most tiresome aspects of my recent health problems – though pleasingly at a very low ebb at present – is that every test pares down the range of options away from really very immediately serious (e.g. cancer) but also away from the relatively minor (infection, etc).

This leaves us, sadly with a range of less salubrious and unpleasantly permanent possibilities. Multiple sclerosis, for example. And... other things.

On Wednesday I took the somewhat unusual step of having a sexual health check-up; unusual in two ways. Firstly I haven't had one since I met Fella. And secondly I haven't had one since well before I met Fella. The first point is important because we're in a stable, loving monogamous relationship. Why therefore would such a check up be important? Well, ever since the debacle with my erstwhile counsellor I've gone right off visiting what is the nearest and by far the best appointed sexual health clinic to my home. In fact it was months and month of fun and fun between then and my relationship beginning... and whilst always taking care to ensure a crop failure however many wild oats sown, there are no guarantees. Safer sex, not safe sex, no?

And the stupid thing is we've never really talked about it, he and I. On that Wednesday I could not put my hand on heart and say, for instance, my Fella is free of diseases!

"But why now?" I hear you ask gentle reader. Well, this is the thing. My symptoms – and this gives some measure of their unpleasantness, are what one might expect to experience when an HIV infection progresses to 'full blown' AIDS. A card in my increasingly slim deck that the standard range of tests had not eliminated.

So there was my paranoia about that but what really began to worry me was if it was by some chance the emergence of one of my worst nightmares, the risk to my man – exposing him to risk, however unintentionally, was more than I could bear.

On Wednesday my anxiety spilled into action. I cleared my calendar, went into Soho, found a rather well set up and excellent sexual health centre and within minutes the Cheerful Fairy was a big pink pin cushion and within a very short while after that a very friendly, short and Welsh nurse was cheerfully telling me all was well and – pending a short delay for my syphilis screen (!!) – there was no cause for concern.

Amusingly my own attention to safety and her determination to provide some kind of service had led the nurse, whilst we waited for the results, rally magnificently in the face of my inability to put myself at (great) risk. She gave me some excellent tips on avoiding and treating sunburn (moisturiser and hope – not unlike my anti-aging strategy).

Anyway... that night Fella and I sat down and properly, properly talked about That Kind of Thing for the first time and I am so glad we did. It led to a much wider discussion about fidelity, sex vs love, how that might evolve as our relationship does (no stone left unturned in the maintenance of monogamy; no door closed in terms of our relationship) so in so many respects the experience was a positive and productive one. But the moral of the story is, I suppose, twofold – one: I am a bit of an idiot sometimes. Two: however crass it seems some things are better discussed. Fully, early, and honestly.

One hand clapping

So here I am. Fella is asleep; in a few short hours it will be our anniversary, true and proper. One whole year!

Much as I adore him I find myself wondering sometimes if it wouldn't be easier... to take all those opportunities for an affair, or just a casual fuck or three. I worry sometimes I still skirt that old world, not quite ready, willing or able to divorce myself. Am I just with him to spare his feelings. Whoops! Roll on the next 60 years...

Perhaps I'm being too harsh on both of us. Neither of us is perfect – and I wouldn't want us to be. But right now he's either manically happy, devastatingly sad, zombified or paralytic. None of those four states is overly pleasing. The highs and lows, stops and starts make one hell of a roller-coaster but sometimes the ride gets a bit much.

Tomorrow we're up early; off to Brighton, the first phase of our plans gets put into action. He won't remember tonight's events , he never does the morning after. I do hope the sun is shining, gentle reader: he won't understand if it's gloomy. So I must ensure it never is even though I remember everything.

He gets so unwell my default state is one of fear. Is he OK? Is he alright?? He's asleep now, frowning deeply as if his sadness infects his dreams. I wonder if he dreams what I'm typing? I wonder if I can get the blood out of the carpet. I wonder if the rest of this inferior Chardonnay and a bit of Dr Who will let me get any sleep tonight at all?

I adore my man. I'm so pleased we've got to an anniversary. I'm living a dream I barely dared to dream even three years ago; but can I make him happy? We're becoming co-dependent he and I. He knows instinctively the sun does not always shine in Strumpetville so he lets in the rain... and the clouds above us both get ever deeper.

Bugger I'm a miserable fairy tonight; maudlin perhaps. Onwards and upwards is the only way forward; and damn it all I shan't go back. Time to make things that little bit tougher... a bit of gay meets Zen. I don't quite know what it is that binds me to him but it is not severed yet.

I'll let you know how the anniversary goes. And how we go about planning for number two!

3, 2, 1...

I'm writing this post by way of an update; a catch-up meant as an apology – or even an excuse – for my ever diminishing blog post output.

Do you recall, gentle reader, that I applied to do a master's degree? Well I got accepted on the course so should start that, all the detail in the meantime notwithstanding, in October. I am really pleased, of course, and very much looking forward to the challenge. On carefully questioning colleagues who have forged this path ahead of me, I have been advised to apply a measure of ruthlessness to my working hours and ensure that don't do more than I should over the two years of the course.

That really will be a challenge, particularly as I have ascended to yet another new role within my faceless bureaucracy (they do seem to come around rather quickly, do they not??). This is my third week as Business Planning Manager for my employer's strategy arm. Deputy Chief of Staff, if I might be permitted to flatter myself, for the branch of my employer tasked with devising what healthcare in London will look like in three, four, five years' time given the needs of an increasingly diverse population, challenging resources over the foreseeable future, and – right now - no Government. One might have thought the lack of a Government might mean less work for a public sector employee but sadly not, sadly not.

Clearly the most exciting electoral map in a generation; the most difficult economic circumstances in three; and the Cheerful Fairy are an unusual combination and it is a fairly safe bet that we shall be living in interesting times for a little while yet.

What I find most peculiar is being in a position where I am considered to be good at what I do. I am somewhat perplexed by it all really, especially since I am not used to being offered roles and responsibilities based on my reputation. I can only work (and hope) to meet the expectations made of me.

In the meantime my colleagues and I ran the 5km run that we had been training for; I was surprised by how smoothly it had gone. And of course we are not yet done; there is a 10km run that we have signed up for in August to support the Gay And Lesbian Switchboard. It's a very worthwhile cause I'm glad we will still be training together and the exercise will be useful. My gym-going is going good; I'm even getting complimented quite spontaneously on my buffness, which is rather pleasing I will confess.

This really only leaves the obligatory update on my gorgeous Fella. It is best to leave that till last because much of what has come before is done for his benefit – or more accurately mine in that it helps me keep him. Helps me be worthwhile for him, in my mind, that is. Hard work, as relationships should be, but in five days we shall be celebrating our first anniversary so clearly it is work that has paid off thusfar – even if it does mean I can't post as often as I used to!

Normal Service

Well, first of all I would like to write a big Thank You to all the people who sent me such nice and supportive comments on my last post.

The Good News is Fella and I are still very much together and looking forward to our first anniversary in just over a week's time. Fella has started his medicine and whilst I was somewhat trepidatious (if that's a word) about the impact it would have on him it has had a very positive and immediate effect that I for one am delighted with. He's a lot happier and not coincidentally so are we.

We spent the long weekend in Cardiff because Fella had a family engagement. Cardiff really is a great town and I strongly strongly recommend it to anyone in the UK looking for a short break. I hope it marks the start of a much better phase for us. Interestingly half his family – including his 87 year old grandmother – trekked back to the hotel with Fella to meet me once his family (no partners, see?) do was over which was nice in a torturous sort of way. However, we have an invite to return and as I have friends down that way too it seems likely we shall be making further trips to sunny Wales at some point.

In the meantime, for our upcoming anniversary, I have booked him and me on a spa day at the London Hilton. After that I'm taking us out for dinner. In the morning of the day of course I think it time for the exchanging of the gifts. I have a vague idea of what Fella has got me (I turned up at his office unannounced not long ago and I think I saw my present then but didn't twig for a little while). However, I am still casting about for the perfect present for him. My tentative exploration of things he might like tend to have been pooh-pooh'd by him... so while I have the BIG gift and lots of little gifts, I still need that TA-DAA present.

I do have the perfect card. I saw it in a shop and to my horror began to cry! So much for the stiff upper lip!!

So there we have it; things continue apace. I'm so glad that Fella is much happier and the amazing change that occurred so quickly has caused me to think how lucky I have been. I have been a bit disappointed, with myself, when things got a bit bumpy back there. I still need to remind myself that my relationship experience is still very small.

Nessy

Fella has an illness. It really is that simple; although it explains an awful lot. Why we've been having a difficult time recently, for example. I think it does him enormous credit to have realised his illness was getting so severe that he needed some help, and tomorrow morning that (I hope) is exactly what he will get.

The illness is disarmingly simple. There is an imbalance of chemicals inside Fella and that affects his mood and how he thinks from time to time. In the past this has required medication to control it; and it seems one of those times has rolled around again.

Fella hasn't always been up-front with me about his past and elements of his personal life. Hmmm... re-reading that I mean to write he has chosen not to reveal all to me as yet. Yes, that's better isn't it?

I really don't mind; it is none of my business – so long as I know how to do what is right for him and what will make him happy. So – and forgive me for straying into selfishness mode here gentle reader – I am experiencing various emotions at this new paradigm.

I think I'm a little bit in shock, to be honest. I don't really understand. That is, the technical and logistical; even the biological mechanisms are apparent to me now. But I am somewhat lost in unchartered territory. This isn't the shiny side of Strumpetville, and no mistake.

The primary feeling is a huge amount of guilt. Fella is and was ill, slowly getting worse and I can't help but feel that I contributed to it. A lot. So much so that this Sunday I raised the possibility that he and I should end our relationship if that is what is best for him. He insists, to no small relief on my part, that it is not. But at 11 months and 11 days I am confronted with the notion that I really don't know him. In many ways situations will occur that cause me to tap the brakes on our relationship and that is itself a good thing. But there's new and there's New!

Fella is a creative type; an artist; a passionate soul that feels the world deeply and one of the reasons he has avoided medication for so long is that when smoothing out the lows it smoothes out the highs; the good times aren't so good and it's not a compromise he's considered worthwhile. Have I driven him to it then? It's like some fucking Greek tragedy; to be the people that fell in love is perhaps to destroy that love – but to become someone else devalues it to the point of meaninglessness.

So what is for the best? There's a huge risk of angsty over-analysis of course. Fella, to me, is the living embodiment of Why; I work hard and wish to achieve something with my life and he is the reason for that, given form. So, perhaps it is for the best to say: bollocks to angsty worry about things. Hard work has never frightened me and Lord knows I consciously understand it needs a lot in any relationship. So, let's get to work shall we? After all, we should not discount the possibility that the help might help.

April Fool!

I may be recycling my post titles, gentle reader, but I thought it would be apt. Today, you see, I want to be a bit selfish and discuss amongst other things my health.

As blogged before on 1 April I went into hospital for yet more tests to explore and ideally pin down my Symptoms. Fella and I went down to the ward I was booked into and I changed into a not-very-fetching gown and special shorts with special flap at the back for access. Fella was quite distressed actually, which resulted in him – somewhat annoyingly, in my view – being fussed over by nurses to brought him tea and cake. I didn't even get morphine damnit! Well, the hours wore on and eventually I have yet another examination which was remarkable in three ways – it was very, very uncomfortable (they gave me minimum sedation so I could leave more quickly when it was over). I also was able to watch then entire exploration on a TV screen right in front of my face, which was somewhat surreal. Thirdly, a number of biopsies were taken and whilst I couldn't feel the samples being removed the displacement of my internal organs by the biopsing machine (or whatever it's called) was most bizarre.

Afterward the nurses very kindly gave me my report, and a bit of cake for me too – having not eaten for 24 hours I was truly grateful – and then I went home.

Since then my health has been on somewhat of a low ebb, I'm afraid. Alongside the Symptoms there is the niggle that all the easy stuff is slowly being eliminated until rather more serious conditions are all that remain. It is interestingly, or to put it another way, it is soul-crappingly scary, that my symptoms are virtually identical to what one might expect when HIV develops into full blown AIDS. Now, whilst sowing my wild oats I have been careful to guarantee a crop failure and indeed when tested nothing of that sort has ever been detected. But it's not really great news.

So it's time to come clean. Reality check – pesky reality, so rare a visitor to Strumpetville and not a welcome one in any event. What are we dealing with here?

• Crohn's disease
  
• Bowel cancer
  
• An unidentified auto-immune disorder
  
• A parasite (yippee)
  
• Madness!
  

Or any combination of the above, I suppose.

To be honest I am not best pleased. I belong generally to the Stuff and Nonsense school of healthcare. If I ignore the illness it shall go away. Well not this time, it would seem. I wondered today if this is what it's like to be old... everything so tiring, that much more difficult than it used to be. Well, at least I can say Stuff and Nonsense to that! In the meantime I have reached a point where I just want to be well.

little fluffy (pink) clouds

I try to have some measure of insight; the reality is I’m probably as selfish and blinkered as most other people. Plus a tad over-sensitive on occasion, but unremarkable beyond that.

Nevertheless sometimes events force a shard of light to pierce the rose-tinted cloud surrounding me as I cheerfully breeze through life; and, as you might have guessed gentle reader, this id one of them there times!

As you know I have been ill for a wee while and am being poked and prodded by a variety of professionals, presumably as poetic justice for the jobs I’ve done over the last few years. Well, it seems on 1 April (see what I mean?) I need to go into hospital for a procedure that will involve sedation – and therefore I need someone to look after me, take me home once it’s done.

The thing is… Fella and I had plans on 31 March and he had plans in the evening of 1 April. Him looking after me would involve him changing and cancelling those plans respectively . I feel terribly guilty for being a burden on him: I don’t want him to miss things he’d enjoy just to play nursemaid to the Cheerful Fairy…

Well, actually let’s be honest. It’s a paradox really. I don’t want to be the kind of boyfriend that would expect his man to change his plans to look after him. But, and this is the thing: I want to have a boyfriend who would want to to change his plans to look after me, and not out of no sense of obligation neither.

Fortunately for you, gentle reader ,no angst ridden crisis to report today – no, this post is about insight and epiphany!

Normally I am very busy at work, but I pride myself on making the time to give Fella as much time as he wants and needs, by text, email or on the phone. But whilst I have been on leave our roles have reversed to some extent – he is also, coincidentally very busy at work – and so breaking the news of my upcoming appointment and all the changes that needed to be made was quite tough. He didn’t’ have time to talk; and he really wasn’t best pleased – I could tell – about having to change his social plans. All in all I felt that I was intruding on his time. Making a nuisance of myself if you will.

Well, talk about the boot being on the other foot! I did realise that I can be quite like that with him from time to time. Well, actually a lot more than that. And I felt very sad about that. He’s never complained but I think I probably shouldn’t be so proud of my time management skills. Hell/crap/damn; I probably shouldn’t be time managing my relationship at all!!

With our big plans and the things we both want to do together in the future, I am absolutely committed to working hard and doing something with my life not just for me, but for us. I just didn’t realise there was a risk of damage to our relationship in the short and medium term, in that ambition and sheer sticktoitiveness may lead me to neglect the work a relationship needs to succeed.

Funnily enough Fella felt bad about being short with me on the phone; he needn’t have of course. But it is good to know that I can do better and we can do better. And that I have a man who wants to look after me – just as I want to look after him.

Hausfrau

I have taken a couple of weeks off work gentle reader . Not for any particular reason, you understand, but to use up my annual leave. Or at least some; as a public sector employee I have a realtively generous allowance of 37 days; given the hours I have to sometimes work it’s impossible to take it all and even with these two weeks I still lose a few days.

Fortunately my projects are finished; it is the end of the financial year; and with a general election in the offing there are few new workstreams being initiated.

Now, I could very much get used to this not-working business. In my daydreams I can see myself as a gentlefairy of leisure; long walks in the morning, improving my mind in my private library in the afternoon, and entertaining in the evening…

So far I’ve spring-cleaned my rooms; and taken in my laptop for a service (it’s breaking down, but fortunately Fella has lent me his in the interim). I am going to the gym every day, and certainly feeling – and seeing – the benefits. In other news my masters application has been submitted; fingers crossed about that. I shall be a dreadfully embarrassed fairy if I don’t get in.
Tomorrow I’m going back into hospital for yet more pokingand prodding. My Big Important Appointment is on 26 April so with luck all my tiresome health worries will be dealt with by the beginning of May.

Domestically all continues apace. It seems Camberwell is very much likely to be Fella’s London residence – again, moving at the beginning of May. It will be nice to have him in London for our one year anniversary in the middle of that month. This works out rather well as it gives me a couple of months to get myself together before I take the plunge and make my move.

Timely, then, that I came across a social housing provider that offers properties for a subsidised rent in return for the promise to buy somewhere in five years’ time. This fits in with the plan rather nicely and therefore I’m giving serious thought to getting my own place again…