Armistead Maupin is just where he wants to be. But that’s not where you might expect. The writer who made his name as the bard of San Francisco – or at least an earlier incarnation of it, featuring gay jockey-short dance competitions, weed‑smoking landladies and, crucially, affordable housing – is now happily ensconced in south London. A 1930s terrace in Clapham feels so much like home that he looks at me wide-eyed when I say that my trip to see him in SW11 met with not a few gasps of surprise. “Oh, get over it,” he snaps, before a reassuring peal of laughter. “Get over your fucking self!”
We sit across from each other in his unfussy living room, the only suggestions of Americana being a large painting of redwoods along the Russian River and various mementoes from TV adaptations – including a street sign from Barbary Lane, focal point of his beloved Tales of the City series. Maupin, almost 80, still has a full head of creamy-silver hair, his trademark moustache, and looks relaxed in jeans and a dark green corduroy shirt.
