It was the summer we were 18. Sitting on the sofa, bored with waiting for our lives to start, my best friend, Joanna, suggested we go to Pride. It would be an adventure, she said. Even though I said yes, I secretly hoped we weren’t really going.
The following Saturday I was standing by the taxi rank at Charing Cross station in London. I had been too nervous to eat breakfast and, waiting for Joanna, I felt sick. I wore new trainers I couldn’t afford and a new T-shirt. Briefly, I thought about turning round and getting the next train home. Spilling out from the station were more gay people than I had ever seen: an older man in camouflage combats wearing a pair of angel wings, a trio of drag queens in tight red sequins, polished as a Motown girl-group. I watched them crossing the road, feeling like I was underdressed, as if Pride was just another place I didn’t belong.
