The first Pride I ever went to, Brighton in 2012, was one of the best days of my life. My best friend was living in the city; I met and fell in love with the man who became my first boyfriend; and I was overwhelmed by a sense of communal warmth, in the cheesiest, most cliched way possible. It was like a heartwarming Netflix drama set across the course of a single day that changes everything for ever. Two years later, I returned to Brighton for Pride. And it was one of the most miserable days of my life.
My best friend had moved away, my ex and I had broken up. I’d just graduated and had no idea what I wanted to do for a job or where I wanted to live. I felt old. I was working at a summer camp for teenagers learning English as a foreign language; to them it didn’t matter whether I was 21 or 28, I was simply an “adult”. The day before Pride, a brassy 16-year-old Italian girl asked me what I was doing after class. When I said I was meeting some friends to have a beer in the park, she frowned at me, with infinite sadness, and replied: “Teacher … you are very old to be drinking in parks.” When you’re working with kids there’s no escaping your own obsolescence.
