Category: Bloggery

Just over a year ago, I met a soon-to-be ex teacher to discuss a play I was writing. The play is still in development, the teacher went on to set up Diversity Role Models. One year on the charity is proving a vital resource to schools, teachers and young people, and last night won Community Group of the Year award at the Attitude Awards.

I was asked to be a Patron when the charity was still being formed and immediately said yes. I would do anything I could to help young people, young gay people from being bullied in schools. I was bullied at school, the back of my seat kicked by a girl who would later turn out to be a good friend – and then not. I was bullied because I was born in India, even though I am not Indian. I was called names and was a bit of a loner at school and always the outsider. I have some knowledge of what it feels like to be bullied, other, not like everyone else, but my experience did not damage me.

Being a patron of DRM, having my smiley picture up on their website, wasn’t enough for me, I wanted to be more actively involved. Yesterday was my first day workshopping as a role model in a school with year tens – that’s 14-15 year olds. I hadn’t been in a school since I left my secondary modern aged 17 with three O-levels and an unsure future ahead of me. I was, of course, nervous. I hadn’t prepared my five-minute talk about myself. I’m quite adept at talking about myself, being spontaneous and winging it usually works for me, I was confident it would again. My facilitator and my co role model couldn’t have been warmer, couldn’t have taken care of me any more than they did. When I drove up and parked, a uniform of school kids (what is the collective noun for school kids?) swarmed around me and I was transported back to my school in the 70s, and I was suddenly nervous, because I know how hurtful kids can be.

Here’s how it works. Our facilitator talks about the charity, why it was set up, and what our aims are for the workshop. Students are given a series of exercises, asked what their idea of a gay man and a lesbian are – the responses mostly were, tight trousers, high pitched voices and acting effeminate for the gay men, having short hair, looking boyish and eyebrow piercings for the lesbians. When my fellow role model and I ticked none of the boxes, jaws dropped, you’re gay, you’re a lesbian, no way. And so the workshop continued. I enjoy being stared at, I like it when people compliment my choice in handbags – even more so when it is a class of teenagers who earlier on, would have thought they had nothing in common with me, a gay woman, who they thought was in no way possible, gay. It makes me smile. My fellow role model had an American accent and immediately won over the kids – American is best! But not only that, he is gay and black – and most of the black kids in the class had never met a black man who was gay. And that is world-changing. I think he became a hero for lots of kids yesterday.

During the workshops we had the chance to talk to some of the kids, and answer questions, how did we know we were gay, did we want kids (when I said I miscarried there was a palpable sigh), and part of the workshop consisted of group discussions, which we joined. I met a young boy whose uncle was gay. I asked if his uncle had been civilly partnered, he said, no he’s married. Touché. He was cool about it all. Another girl told my fellow role model that she had a gay brother, I asked if she wanted to fix him up with the role model – she smiled. Alarmingly, a girl from a very religious family, told me she could never tell her parents she was gay, that if she was gay she’d either have to kill herself or be exorcised. She was adamant. I was sad.

And each class was as different as it was similar. Teachers sat in, watched, listened. My talk changed a little with each new outing. I felt responsible and privileged and very proud because not all teenagers are the same, they taught me a lot about myself, they taught me that mostly they are not given credit for the good, for the positive, just for the negative. Just like all gay people are not the same, all teenagers are not the same. I’ve met some astonishing teenagers, not least of all those I am related to and their friends. Now that circle has widened.

Five classes later, each lasting 50 mins, with a generous lunch in between, I drove home confirming what I already knew, that dialogue is always best, that talking and discussing and meeting people makes the difference, that change is possible, because the day we think it isn’t, we might as well all hold hands and jump into a hole.

I can’t wait for my next workshops, I’m sure they will be different, perhaps not so enlightened or so easy. But I would rather try and make change happen than complain and do nothing. We all need role models, whether we’re fourteen, forty-four or sixty-four. We all need people we can look up to, identify with, trust, whether they’re just like doesn’t really matter, but often it can help. I didn’t have many gay women role models growing up, so it’s vital that I be that person for the younger generation. Imagine if all the parents of all the school children attended such workshops – imagine. If I’ve made one person think differently about what it’s like to be gay, or what gay people are like, or perhaps make them think about gay kids in their school and how they may have behaved towards them, then I’ve done my job and I’ve got Diversity Role Models to thank for that.

I arrived in LA on Wednesday night, 71 degrees, shorts and flip-flops (not me), my cousin’s boyfriend met me at the airport after an hour’s wait at customs. In the past, American customs have always scared the hell out of me. This time they didn’t, this time I went through without hassle or search, into the arms of a man whose girlfriend is very, very sick.  His partner, my cousin Linda.

That’s why I am here, not to party or work or see the sights, even my family and friends come second to Linda.  I am here because we are close, because she is an inspiration, because she really isn’t well.  She’s had cancer for 9 years, has had about 16 different types of chemotherapy and is now coming off a trial drug because it isn’t working.  I wanted to see her, to be with her, to be around her incredible energy.  I am with her, around her still incredible, but lower energy, lower because she is tired, she is frail, she is thin and beautiful and she still makes me laugh.

Yesterday I met an old friend whose writing career has taken off in the past year and I am delighted for him.  He is down to earth and genuine, a real friend.  We talked writing talk and politics, and despite him thinking he doesn’t have a west coast accent, he says stoopid not stupid…John, face it, you have an American accent.

Last night Linda insisted on buying us a Chinese takeaway, she wouldn’t let me pay, said there’s no discussion.  I ate a lot.  I enjoyed every mouthful.

I had a good night’s sleep, the man in the apartment (yeah, I’ve been here two days and I am speaking a different language) opposite didn’t wake me with his coffee grinder.  My cousin’s boyfriend left for NY at 4am on a special 13 birthday treat for his granddaughter.  He was so quiet I didn’t hear a thing.  I had a cup of M&S extra strength No 3 tea, in bed with my Time Out guide to LA and my flexi map.   I had a restful morning while Linda slept.

When she woke she looked outside and realised that the man who owns three houses, who lives in one, rents one and leaves the other one empty, had cut down the avocado tree in his garden, the tree that has borne fruit, which Linda and her boyfriend have helped themselves to with the help of what I can only describe as a fruit grabber.  The man has cut it down (and quite savagely) for the second time.  What kind of person does that?  He has an orange, grapefruit and lime tree too.  If he cuts them down while I am here, I may have to say something, I may have to say that I would give anything to have those trees in my London garden, that he should be ashamed of himself.  I know Linda doesn’t want me to say anything.

And after tea and chatter, my very old friend arrived to take me for brunch.  We met in 1978, had lost contact with each other, through no fault of our own, and blissfully found each other.   We had tea with Linda and we left.  And in those three hours we continued as if we had only seen each other a week ago, not 5-6 years ago.  And I realised how precious my friends are, the friends who have picked me up and dropped me off, who know why I am in LA, who will do anything I ask, who have put themselves out for me.

Then I took Linda to UCLA to see her Dr.  And things are not great.  That is all I am willing to share.

I spoke to a woman whose ten-year old son starts chemotherapy tonight for a brain tumour.  She had to go down to the pharmacy to get one of his drugs.  She was crying, so I hugged her and told her never to give up hope.  I had the conversation with people, the same conversations as I used to have when I took my sister to her chemo sessions, because people are people and disease is disease, it has no accent, no nationality, no preference for religion or colour or sexuality.  In disease we are all equal.  I spoke to Drs and nurses, became all stoopid when I read the Dr’s name, embroidered on his white coat, with the initials M.D.  I am British, I see those initials in films and on TV, not in real life.  As Linda said, he’s a medical doctor, I said yeah, but our consultants don’t have their initials on their gowns.  In this sad situation, I was weirdly excited by two letters of the alphabet.

We came home, Linda went to sleep, I had tea, went for a walk to buy milk, enthused at the supermarket shelves, I love American supermarkets, the variety, the magnitude of everything, the choice.  On one hand the USA is full of junk food, snacks (they are first-rate snackers), obesity, on the other, full of diets and organic and fat-free, face lifts and body beautiful, though I haven’t seen many of the latter in the two days I have been here.

On past visits, LA has always been a place I have never much cared for, not like NY which I love with a passion. This time round, I am in love with LA in a way I have never been and I am surprised. Perhaps it is because I am not here as a tourist. Yesterday, while Linda slept and her boyfriend played golf, I went for a walk, a thirty block walk to the sea – the what, a man said when I asked him, ‘is the sea far?’ ‘The what?’ I tried again. ‘The Pacific.’ ‘Oh, oh, about another 16 blocks.’ So I kept walking, because I have two legs that work, and because I can, and I talked to strangers, gave them directions, told them where a 7/11 store was (because I had just asked someone), I sorted my phone very quickly in a T mobile store, quickly and inexpensively. I went to the Apple store, they didn’t have what I wanted, just like the London Apple store – and then I arrived at the sea, sorry the Pacific, with the Santa Monica mountains behind me and I sat and stared and marvelled at it all. Slightly full of the sun (yes, I had spread on a good amount of factor 50) I took the number 1 bus back to the apartment, and I was in love with LA. With the stunning Art Deco, which somehow, in my youth, I had ignored, and not been the slightest bit interested in. I love the climate, the friendliness, everyone is willing to help. And I drove here…drove my cousin’s boyfriend’s car, his fabulous car, which has no actual hand brake, which has a button you press to start and stop, which has photo detail of the back of the car and the area around it when you park. I drove in LA for the first time, with Linda sitting beside me giving me directions. I am not that brave, I don’t want to end up on a giant freeway and find myself on the road to San Diego, but I enjoy driving and when I drive down Santa Monica Blvd, Sheryl Crow is singing with me.

So here I am, sitting in the living room of my cousin’s apt while she sleeps. Outside, the crickets make their distinct noise, the refrigerator whirrs away, the night is warm, but not too warm. I could be in an Arthur Miller play. I postponed going out with my cousins this evening because there was no way I was leaving Linda alone, because that is why I am here and my cousins understood and said, okay, you do what you have to, you are a good cousin.

And there is silence. The people outside who were making a lot of noise, the man singing in a latino accent, the group chatting loudly, have all closed their doors, gone inside. And I remember the woman who earlier today made me smile when she said mother fucker, the man with half a face in the hospital who seemed cheery enough, the woman who asked Linda if she needed anything, while I stood at the counter waiting for her meds. I was even allowed to sign her credit card, because she was too sick to. I think how lucky we are to have our national health, that here the cost for health care is so vast, I have heard stories during my 48 hours that have made my jaw drop and my blood pressure rise. We must do everything we can to hold on to our NHS, to stop the Tories from taking away from the poor and replacing it with nothing. The NHS is special and we are lucky, those who moan about it perhaps don’t know how lucky we are. When we don’t have it anymore, it will be too late for them to realise the luck they had.

And as I sit here, full of last night’s left over Chinese food and a Babe Ruth bar (like our Picnics), which I have a predilection for, two cups of tea and a head that is wide awake, I am thankful for my life and for my health, for being lucky that I have been born into this life, because it could have been another life, I could be one of the many people I have seen lying in the streets, in LA and London and countless other cities. My life is a good one, a hopeful one, I had some exciting work news this morning, and I am holding on to that excitement, because I want to, because alongside the sadness and decay the good things matter too.

Tomorrow we may be swimming in a Bel Air pool, more likely we will be here, and I will go down to the Pacific and swim and watch people watch me, the crazy London girl who swims in October. And I will tell them that I swim in London in autumn and spring and summer and winter in an unheated outdoor pool.

Linda sleeps, the night is quiet. This is okay.

Yesterday morning I went to the funeral of a friend’s dad, a man I knew a little, liked a lot, a funny and clever man, I always enjoyed his company. And I think Stella and I were his first lesbian couple. He and his wife have always been generous and warm to us. I shall remember his smile, his never failing sense of humour, his happiness, his acceptance.

Yesterday evening I went to the Savoy Hotel for the European Diversity Awards. I’d never been before, as a guest I was excited to see old friends and shake the hands of a few who may turn out to be new ones! It was a superb evening, with tears and laughter and so much hope. It was only the second time I have been to such an event, where I have honestly felt that it didn’t matter what you were – what your ethnic background was, religious belief, sexuality, gender, whether you had a disability, whether you were a banker or a broadcaster. The first time was at No 10, for an anti bullying event. I left the Savoy last night feeling an enormous sense of belonging, because I fitted in, I felt at home, because we were all there for the same reason. I applaud all those who make a difference, all the people who were there last night and many who were not – the people who put themselves on the line every single day just because of who they are, never afraid to say it as it is, or to stand up and fight. Some people don’t have a choice, they can’t hide their diversity. I could if I chose to, I don’t. There are astonishing people out there doing astonishing things to make our society a safer and better place. Diversity is something to be proud of, to embrace and encourage, not to run away from or attack.

These are important awards, because they acknowledge everyone in society and I mean everyone. For me, last night was a microcosm of what my ideal world would be; everyone, no labels now, living side by side, enjoying and respecting each other for what they are.

I found this on-line, I have no idea who wrote it, but it says it all. Thanks to the writer.

The concept of diversity encompasses acceptance and respect. It means understanding that each individual is unique, and recognizing our individual differences. These can be along the dimensions of race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, socio-economic status, age, physical abilities, religious beliefs,political beliefs, or other ideologies. It is the exploration of these differences in a safe, positive, and nurturing environment. It is about understanding each other and moving beyond simple tolerance to embracing and celebrating the rich dimensions of diversity contained within each individual.

Okay, so most of you won’t know that I always wanted to be in musicals, possibly ever since, on the brick of becoming a teenager, in 1971 I saw Ken Russell’s film The Boyfriend, starring Twiggy. I went to the local ABC, around the corner from where I grew up. I saw it several times and each time my heart sang a little more.

There’s a lot of tap dancing in it, and, much to the annoyance of my parents, I took my brown school shoes into the shoe repair shop and asked them to put taps on the heels and toes. They weren’t real taps, not the kind of taps proper tap dancers wore, but the kind people had nailed on to make their shoes last longer. It didn’t matter to me, I could shuffle ball change and make the sound I wanted. I could be Twiggy in my knee-high socks and school uniform. I could dance on our conservatory floor (cold, more like a greenhouse). Of course I didn’t have a clue what I was doing and my version of shuffle ball change was decidedly different to the real thing, but I was happy, and so my love of musicals grew.

At that time, I’d been at my secondary modern for a year or so, I was the odd one out, shared my theatrical interests with a few. I auditioned for the National Youth Theatre, got a recall, never got in. I can still remember the audition, and the audition piece from a Noel Coward play called Come into the Garden Maud. Don’t ask. I never imagined that years and years later I would write a play for the NYT. While my school friends used to go to clubs (or discos as they were called then), I would be taking the number 13 bus into the West End, seeing just about every show I could, musicals, plays, the theatre stole my heart. I was hungry for it, saw everything, spent all my pocket money, birthday money and later on, work money, on bus tickets and the cheapest theatre seats. Not so cheap anymore.

Moving forward several years, my love of musicals never waned. I saw originals in London and on Broadway of A Chorus Line, 42nd Street, Dreamgirls, Chicago, Billy, Sweeney Todd, Little Shop of Horrors and so many more. I saw everything I could, sometimes twice. I saw the RSC’s Once in a Lifetime about fifteen times. I would sit high up in the cheaper seats, imagine myself down on that stage, in a spotlight, singing and dancing (not so much of the latter) and compelling the audience to want more. I would get awards for my work, I would sign my name for fans at the stage door, just as I had stood, for hours sometimes, to queue and squeal when Rock Hudson and Lee Remick signed my little yellow autograph book.

Of course those ambitions never happened. I went to drama school, auditioned for a few shows, but I wasn’t good enough. There were so many others who had it all, who shone, who lit the stage and sang out, in a way I never could. And it’s fine, really, it’s okay, because often life doesn’t work out the way we expect it to, and what presents itself may sometimes be something we could never have imagined. I never imagined I could be a writer.

Last night I went to see Mack and Mabel at the Southwark Playhouse. I know it well, I know the music, the songs, the lyrics practically by heart, but I had never seen it. I haven’t seen an old fashioned musical for some years, and last night, in that incredible space, I was reminded of my early years and my ambition. The music, the cast, the lights, the clothes made me smile the whole way through. I had to put my hand over my mouth so I didn’t sing out loud, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, it did, and I cried.

Some playwrights I know dislike musicals, in the same way some literary novelists don’t rate commercial fiction. I say there is nothing wrong with commercial, feel-good work, there is nothing wrong with singing and dancing and being happy without having to analyse every word and intention. Then again, Mack and Mabel does have much to say about celebrity and women and their place in the movies, when the silent films gave way to the talkies, women still had no voice. And it doesn’t exactly have a Hollywood ending.

I digress. You’ll have to go and see it for yourself, watch the superb and astonishing cast. There’s tap-dancing too, glorious tap dancing on an uneven concrete floor. They’ve put in an extra matinee on Tuesday 21st August. I might go again.

Sometimes, often, we don’t get what we want in life. I didn’t get to stand in front of an audience in the way I wanted to, I do get audiences, radio audiences who I never see and who never see me, and theatre audiences who I sit behind and watch and only interact with when we do after-show talks, and that is good enough. The other thing I never counted on was becoming a competent swimmer, loving it, loving the water, the chlorine (okay, I admit, I don’t love the chlorine), having found something later in life that I can do, that I am good at, that I have stuck with and progressed at. I’ve been five days in a row, I have lost half a stone, by Sat I will have been swimming for an entire week. I can now call myself a swimmer. Three years ago I couldn’t. It absorbs me in the same way musicals do, except I have to do all the hard work and there is no applause for me. It makes me happy, it makes me feel good. It probably costs as much as those cheap, upper circle seats I used to buy when I was a young girl. But I have found something new that I love.

Sitting in that theatre last night made me happy and sad. Sad because it made me think of the things we aim for, work towards, many of which never happen. It made me happy because, in swimming, I have found something new, something I never thought in my wildest dreams that I would like, let alone do quite well. And now that I have cast aside any ambitions to be in musicals – though I would still very much like to write one or two – I harbour secret ambitions to be an Olympian, to win gold, though I’d be content with bronze, to be honoured, to swim for my country. Of course I know it is NEVER going to happen because I am too old and not good enough, but it doesn’t mean I can’t do it, every day if I want, get in that pool and have people watch me. I watch other people, I am sure they watch the woman in black, with a bright pink swimming cap and Keifer goggles, who thinks she is fifteen but knows she is a lot older and a little wiser. It’s okay to have the surprises, the ones you don’t expect and then be good at them. Writing was a surprise, but I have to earn a living from that, swimming was a bigger surprise, it is my joy, the place I go where no one and nothing can disturb me.

I might transfer the music from Mack and Mabel onto my underwater MP3 player and dream while I swim, of what might have been, and what is. And I can live with that very happily.

Back in the day, if you were a woman and you played or were associated with sport, everyone assumed you were gay, because in order to play sport and be good at it, you were seen as having masculine characteristics – and, of course, there was no way you could be feminine and gay. Sadly I don’t think this has changed much over the years, in fact I think it has become worse as more women are in the sporting limelight. I believe there is pressure on women, in sport in particular, from society, to present as feminine – which in turn highlights the still very rife institutional homophobia.

This time round, I have immersed myself in the Olympics, watching everything from athletics to water polo, beach volleyball to judo. I even managed a glimpse of the women’s boxing, but had to switch over, I don’t like men’s boxing; I’m definitely not doing to watch women in a sport I really don’t enjoy.

During all of my viewing, and there have been many hours, what I have noticed is that so many sportswomen – whether in the pool or on the field, in a boat or on a horse – wear make up, often loads of make up and jewellery, their nails painted in extraordinary colours, some with the emblems of their national flags, others in florescent greens and pinks. I have commented on this many times. Women swimmers, with their swimmer’s shoulders and incredibly fit bodies, have no qualms about showing smudged mascara when their goggles are removed. I worried about their earrings, whether they would come off mid lap and be lost in Olympic chlorine. So I find myself wondering if the choice to wear so much make up and bling has anything to do with the need to present as feminine? Because those are the obvious attributes and accessories that society considers as feminine, because maybe they, the sportswomen, are worried people will think they are gay, because so often people assume that to be unfeminine is to be gay, and deep down they don’t want to risk being seen as gay. Because they have a problem with it. Because we have a problem with it.

Every dictionary I have looked through describes femininity as pertaining to womanly traits, although they don’t go on to say what those traits are. To be feminine is sited as someone who shows female characteristics, ‘peculiar or appropriate to, women or the female sex.’ People often use the adjective unfeminine to describe women who don’t wear makeup, ungainly women, women with short hair, women who are super fit or have well worked out bodies, women who enjoy technology, women who ride motorbikes, women who have short nails, or prefer trousers to dresses or skirts. And the list goes on. Do we therefore assume that to be feminine is everything that is opposite to the above? I don’t think so. Surely femininity is in the eye of the beholder? Some men and women love women who wear casual, sporty clothes with not a hint of make up, while others adore women in high heels, faces painted and wearing the most revealing of clothes. But does the latter way of presenting oneself really make a woman more feminine?

I know loads of women who would consider themselves feminine because they wear make up, paint their nails, wear all the accoutrements that society associates with femininity – and yet there is very little I would consider feminine about them. Personally I think it’s about a lot more than the way you look. I don’t think you can make yourself feminine, you either are or you’re not. Loads of straight women are not feminine, many gay women are, the worry for me, in relation to the sports world, is that heterosexual sportswomen feel pressured by a society that is often homophobic, and so need to prove they are straight – and therefore more acceptable. And the way to do so is by presenting as ‘feminine’ – made up and bejewelled. At least that’s the message I’m getting, specifically in relation to women and sport. I have watched male athletes ‘bumping’ bodies, rather than hugging. I can only assume that male athletes hugging might be seen as effeminate, and lead people to question whether they are gay. Then again, maybe it’s a cool and contemporary athlete’s body bump, and what they all do these days.

When I look at gay women in sport, Martina Navratilova, Billy Jean King, Amelie Mauresmo (I can’t name any in other sports, but I am sure they exist) or British actors, stand ups and presenters – Heather Peace, Susan Calman, Clare Balding, I applaud them, people love them for who they are not what they are, they are all professional and brilliant at their jobs, that they are gay is of no relevance to most viewers. Are they feminine? I know what I think, but your opinion may differ to mine and you may have subconsciously decided that because they are gay, they can’t be feminine.

Whenever I watch I’m a Celebrity Get me Out of Here, I often find the women who choose not to wear make up are the most attractive in the jungle. There’s something very earthy and real about them and they all look younger without layers of foundation and mascara and bright red lipstick. Then again when my wife returns from having been on the TV, caked in makeup, I love how she looks! So is femininity about more than the way you look? What constitutes femininity in 2012?

I only wear make up if I am going out to events/dinners etc, it’s not much fun putting it on only to sit in front of a computer all day, and then taking it off hours later (which is very tedious!). I love dresses but they are not always appropriate. I used to have long nails, but they are short now, because I can’t write with long nails. I prefer minimal jewellery, my hair is shoulder length because I like to have the choice to tie it up. I am not super fit, but I am fit, and I do enjoy sport. I love love love technology. I used to ride a motorbike, when I was much younger, but I couldn’t wear the skirts and shorts I wanted to, had one accident and sold it. I prefer cars, I love cars, I am at my happiest driving. I love being a woman, but I don’t feel the need to dress myself up, make myself up, in order to prove I am what society might call feminine. When I was younger, I was so worried about being labelled, concerned about people seeing me as a stereotype, that I went out of my way to look ‘feminine’. As I have grown older, that pressure has gone, and I am happy to look like and wear what I choose to on any given day.

I’m not for one moment suggesting that what sportswomen wear, or how they present themselves, is wrong. Ultimately, I really hope all of them, as amazing as they are, and they are amazing, wear what they want to, with or without make up, with or without jewels. I hope what they wear isn’t determined by societal pressure, because perhaps while we’re happy to see men sweating and messy and dirty and purely engaged in physical work, we all too often want our women, working as hard as the men, working at the same peak of fitness, to look pretty too?

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I apologise for the awful ad links that WordPress controls on blogs. I have tried to block them, but cannot. Loads of people have complained, so anyone who is in the know, please tell me!

Okay, so I was one of the many who bemoaned the Olympics coming to London, the amount it was going to cost us, the disruption to transport and parks, how I would get to my parents in north London if not by car because of Olympic Lanes. Now, on day 5 of the Olympics, I have totally changed my mind and have gone from grumpy to ecstatically happy.

We’re very good at moaning over here in the UK, about the weather, the transport, the transport and weather. If moaning and complaining were Olympic sports, we would win gold every time. I’m not sure why we do it, perhaps we’re scared of winning, or unable to believe what we’re capable of, so rather than being optimistic, we begin with pessimism, and if we’re proved right, well, it’s a case of ‘told you so,’ and if we win, we’re just surprised and then say anything is possible if you work hard. A couple of GBR women swimmers apologised to their supporters for not doing better, I haven’t heard any other country do that – you’re in the Olympics, don’t apologise, it’s amazing. Obviously it’s a competitive sport and everyone wants to win, but the hours of commitment and hard work you put in, earn nothing but respect from me.

A few people have said, ‘you’re so lucky to have tickets’ – this is how lucky we are. Stella applied a couple of times and received nothing. She then woke up very early (6am) to try on-line when tickets were available again. This was during my grumpy, I-really-don’t-care, period. She was allocated tickets for beach volleyball and synchronised swimming, both of which we were satisfied with. By now I was a little more enthused, but thought no more about it. But then we were told that synchronised swimming had been over subscribed – would we like to change them, at no extra cost, to gymnastic or swimming finals? Stella is a gymnastics’ supporter, I prefer swimming and just wanted to sit (preferably swim) in the Aquatic centre. Knowing how much it would mean to me as a fairly new swimmer, Stella went for the swimming tickets – that’s how much she loves me. And so my journey from grumpy to happy began to take hold.

Admittedly the tickets are not cheap, but I don’t smoke, hardly drink, hardly ever go to gigs or sporting events, and perhaps have one decent holiday a year, spending money on these tickets was okay to do and a once in a lifetime event. We are aware how fortunate we are, but we are also aware that we don’t spend heaps on what others might. Stella woke up in time to apply – so for every person who calls us lucky, some of it is due to waking up in time and being bothered! And there are loads still on sale now. I am very tempted…

From watching the Olympic torch being carried along Coldharbour Lane at the bottom of our road, to the stunning opening ceremony, adrenalin had started to creep through my veins, and I was excited, so excited about it all and took back all my moans and complaints. But there are still people around me who moan (and a lot who don’t). I can understand if you don’t like or care about sport, but this is about so much more, a community and city coming together, collective enjoyment, London being transformed in a way it probably never will be again in my life time, of people being happy, talking to each other, getting into the spirit of the games and having fun.

First stop for us was beach volleyball on Monday in a spectacularly transformed Horse Guards Parade. Personally I think it should remain like this. Everyone said, watch out for the queues, take your time, leave early. So we left the house at 7.15am, to find there were no queues, security was swift, yes a slight queue for food and drink, but you can expect that wherever there are thousands of people. We laughed and danced, and learned about the rules and scoring pretty swiftly – best four hours we have had in ages. The crowd was tremendous, the commentators working so hard. I loved every minute of it, so much so that I would go again.

Second stop, Wembley, for the women’s football – GBR v Brazil. I was offered a ticket for this a day before the match. I already have a ticket for the finals (thanks to another friend), but thought as it was GBR I had to be part of the crowd. AND I have never been to Wembley, this would be a great opportunity. I met my friend at the station, and we were swept along by young and old, kids and teenagers and grandparents with painted faces and wigs, the Union flag draped over so many shoulders. I’ve been to football before, but this was different, this was the Olympics, women’s football in my city. I admit I don’t know heaps about the game but I know enough to enjoy it, to be part of it, to shout as loud as the man or woman next to me, to leap to my feet when we score and put my hands over my face when the other side are about to score…and then punch the air when they miss. I returned home just before midnight, and couldn’t sleep, I was so overwhelmed by it all. I then stayed up to watch the swimming finals that I had recorded, because I care about swimming and I was too wide-awake to sleep.

Third stop will be at the Aquatic Centre on Saturday for four swimming finals, and I cannot wait. I will have to restrain myself from jumping in the pool.

Fourth stop will be the women’s football final, again at Wembley. I feel like an old hand now and know what to expect, where to go, and each time I learn a little more about the players and the game and my own ability to shout louder and then louder still.

And during all of this, I have been overcome by how lovely people have been, in the streets, in tubes, school kids and parents and teachers, total strangers, all out there enjoying what I am enjoying, laughing and having fun and bringing us together. I know the world isn’t in great shape, and while we are enjoying, people are being slaughtered and wars continue, I don’t think any of us is unaware of that, but it’s a joy to let go of it for a short time, to revel in our stunning city, at what the organisers have actually worked towards, an amazing feat of planning and skill and creativity. And I find that I am happy and excited and enthused and passionate and I hope I can stay this way, when the Olympics and Paralympics end and London is restored to its usual beautiful self, when the sand has gone and the grass is restored, when I am allowed into the pool for a length or two, and the city returns to normal. And I will use public transport more because it works, and it has been easy and a joy to let someone else do the driving.

When I was at my secondary modern, way back in the 70s, I threw the javelin for Barnet, I even broke a few records. I have no idea how I ended up doing that, but I did. If I’d had the right kind of encouragement or showed any interest, who knows what I might have achieved. I remember hot summer days at Copthall stadium, and the sound of the crowd, and my very favourite Adidas trainers, which I kept for years after I outgrew them, caked in mud, their leather wrinkled and cracked. I loved those trainers, I still love them. I‘ve never thought of myself as a sporty type, in fact a friend I was having lunch with today said he was a little surprised I liked sport, but in later life, I realise I really do enjoy it. It’s not so much about winning for me, I’m too old and unfit to compete, it’s about being involved, being a partaker and a spectator. I’m a swimmer, not a brilliant swimmer, a later to life swimmer, and it has changed my life. I love doing it and watching it, I love watching the older swimmers hand over to the new, pretty much one of the statements of the opening ceremony. I love watching those young athletes, all of them, reaping the rewards of their hard work, even those who don’t win are heroes to me. They inspire me in my swimming and in my own work. As PE teacher, Helen Glover said today, being interviewed after winning Gold in the rowing with Heather Stanning. “I really hope my story can be an inspiration for kids in PE watching this, or at home thinking about taking up a new sport. Just go on, go for it, you don’t know what’s going to happen.” Glover and Stanning are both products of a British recruitment programme to find tall athletes with little prior experience of rowing. I wonder if there is anything an enthusiastic, more mature woman can train for?

I applaud the way London has been used and re-created for the Olympics and Paralympics. And another thing – didn’t we all moan about the land to air missiles – and they haven’t, as far as I am aware, been mentioned. It’s a shame they are here, but I would hate for anything to happen, to the professionals, the volunteers, the supporters or the good people of London who carry on with their work and life away from the games – and it is perfectly okay not to care about the games, but please don’t moan at those of us who do care and enjoy them.

Lastly, I’d like to thank all the volunteers I have so far encountered – every single one has been happy, smiley, cheerful, positive and willing to help. If only we could adopt this attitude as a nation, being optimistic instead of pessimistic, not apologising because we didn’t win, but applauding our achievements, I think the whole country would see its energy shift and if that happens who knows what might be possible. So let’s celebrate and be happy. Being grumpy is no fun at all.

And didn’t Bradley Wiggins do well!

If you’ve read my past blogs you’ll realise that anger and upset drive me to post on here. Anger and upset and general disappointment and disillusionment with people and the world often drive me to write plays. Today I woke up to find my wife in tears, hands on her keyboard, tapping away furiously. The Church has upset her again. And it has upset me. And for a Jewish girl, that is not a good thing. The Church has decided that ‘gay’ marriage (they can’t actually call it equal, because to do so would be to acknowledge that it’s actually about equality not about being gay) will ‘dilute an institution “vastly” important to a healthy society.’ This suggests that by offering everyone equality, gay people will somehow create an unhealthy society merely by marrying. I didn’t know I had that much power. I am sick and tired of being told I am not equal, that I am not worthy of the equality my straight married friends are given just because they are straight. Perhaps people think that giving us civil partnership would shut us up, silence us from wanting true equality, but guess what, for me at least, civil partnership provides some, but not total equality. I believe equality is not just about having the same legal rights as my straight married friends, it’s about being married to my wife (see that, wife, NOT partner, civil or other) it’s about being acknowledged as equal by the society I live in, by the people I love, by my family and friends and by giving them the chance to finally see me as truly equal.

I know a lot of gay people don’t want equal marriage, and to them I say, that is absolutely fine, you don’t have to get married. If you don’t want equality that is your choice. But give me the chance to make that choice, right now I don’t have it. It’s the word ‘marriage’ that matters to me, although of course having the same legal rights as my straight friends is vitally important as well. And the word ‘marriage,’ especially when used with the word ‘gay’ causes the Church much concern. If the Church looks at marriage v civil partnership, it might see that straight marriage has done nothing to guarantee a healthy society – because a healthy society actually means an equal society and right now we are not equal. Imagine if only white people, and healthy white people, could get married, because anyone else (Black, Asian, disabled) would pose a threat to a ‘healthy’ society, what an outcry that would cause, and rightly so. And please Church people, don’t tell me it is different, it is not, it is about equality, and true equality is about treating everyone the same, no matter what colour or religion or physical state we are in, true equality allows everyone the same opportunity.

I honestly believe that offering everyone marriage will create a healthier society, because let’s face it, the one we live in is corrupt and pretty disgusting at times. The younger members of our society are the future, and many of the young people who I have known all their lives, have grown up with only knowing Stella as my wife – because we have been together for twenty-two years, far longer than a great deal of my straight friends. By disapproving equal marriage, the Church is telling everyone that we do not deserve to be equal and therefore we are not equal. In my opinion, inequality only generates an unhealthy society. What kind of future are we creating if equality is not there, high up on the agenda? Ultimately it is all about choice, allow me to choose what I want to do, until you do, I am not equal.

I had dinner with four Uni friends last night, who I met when we were all mature students some twenty years ago, all women and all very much my kind of women – bright, intelligent, funny, with a great work ethic, good appetites, and in favour of a decent drink. Some of us hadn’t seen each other for several years, we spent time trying to pin down exactly when we last met, between 5-9 years. It didn’t matter, we carried on where we had left off during our last meal in exactly the same restaurant, quickly catching up with each other’s lives, families, jobs, partners, we ate and drank, and our carriages arrived a bit before midnight. Actually, I was parked around the corner.

Yesterday afternoon, during a half hour writing break, I watched a comedy drama on BBC Four, called A Civil Arrangement with the very agreeable and now silver-haired Alison Steadman. SPOILER ALERT. She played the mother of the bride. The bride was gay. The wedding a civil partnership. It was basically a monologue, though other characters dropped in and out silently. I know it wasn’t based in a big city, but in the provinces, and I know not everyone is okay with having a lesbian in their family, especially, as I am constantly reminded by people who live in the provinces, people who live outside London (actually there are quite a few inside London who have problems too). I did think it would have worked better on radio, then discovered it had been on radio, and possibly also in the theatre, and now it was getting its TV airing. I read one review prior to watching, actually the review made me want to watch, before that, I didn’t much care to see it. I knew it would be full of stereotypes and I knew I would be angry. I did laugh, some of it was very funny, and Alison Steadman always delivers, but my anger began when the soon-to-be daughter-in-law emerged in leathers and on a motorbike and continued where lesbians were portrayed as having no sense of humour. I can be very funny, quite often, really, I can. Then, after Alison Steadman and her brand new daughter-in-law have a snog at the wedding (the whole way through there are gradual suggestions that Alison Steadman’s character is falling in love with the wonderful Janis), they end up having an affair. It ended with Alison Steadman in leathers (and very lovely she was too) and her daughter-in-law waiting by her motorbike, no doubt to be taken off to Hebden Bridge for the weekend or Lesbos. I’ve never been to Lesbos. I have been to Hebden Bridge, but only en route to another location.

There were some lovely father/daughter, mother/daughter moments, especially when the father refused to go to the wedding, as he could not cope with it, and then, just as Alison Steadman had offered her daughter her arm, the father appeared all jolly and smiling and at peace with it all (see, miracles do happen), and the mother was left, alone. I loved that, it was true and sad and honest. What I didn’t love was the fact that yet again, lesbians were written and highlighted in a way anyone of ethnic origin was written about in the seventies, as stereotypes and usually the punchline to a weak joke.

I know I bang on about it, but banging creates noise and noise creates change, and those who remain silent, do nothing. If I wrote a Black or Asian character being depicted in the way lesbians usually are, I would (rightly) be reprimanded.

When will we start to see lesbians being written as women, not as ‘other’ to women? In case you hadn’t noticed, we are women, we do what other women do, we just happen to like other women in a way our other women friends don’t – actually I reckon quite a lot of them do, but would never admit it, or have, but would never say. When can we just be women, and not have our own TV series where we are other to the rest of the world, where we live in a ghetto, where we either have to be killed or kill ourselves or move away, or live with a dark secret, or marry a man? When will we just be? The inspirational David Simon (The Wire, Treme) writes women like me brilliantly, because he doesn’t make a big deal out of the fact that they are gay and the whole plot does not revolve around the fact that they are gay. As Stonewall’s apt tee shirt says – Some people are gay, get over it.

This comedy drama also made the need for equal marriage and equal civil partnership, more urgent, so that we can start to see weddings and civil ceremonies in comedies and dramas, with same-sex or opposite sex couples, and not separate one from the other. As long as we are kept separate we will stay separate. If you want to stay separate, that’s another matter, I don’t. So let’s stop reinforcing that all people who live in the suburbs or provinces can’t cope with anyone who is ‘other’, and give them a little more credit. They are not all right-wing homophobes.

My blogs are usually driven by some kind of anger with the world, and this one is no exception. I wasn’t sure how to start the blog, what to say exactly, but after dinner with my Uni friends last night, I realised that not one of us had used the word gay or lesbian. I was talked to and about just like the others, I was not made out to be different by my heterosexual women friends, because that’s not how they see me and not how I see myself, because I am a woman, just like them. The only difference for me was that I don’t have children, and the rest of them do. But that is another story and another blog and has nothing to do with me being gay.

For now, see me as a woman and a writer, who is very often quite funny.

I was invited to Bowel Cancer UK’s 25th Anniversary reception at No 10 yesterday. I went with my wife, Stella and my eldest nephew, Eyal. I went because my sister, Eyal’s mother, died of bowel cancer on February 3, 2011 age 53. One friend’s father died of this only a couple of weeks ago, another friend’s father has just been diagnosed. I went because I want to support this charity and make people more aware of bowel cancer, actually, of cancer in general, because, let’s face it, cancer is cancer, it ends up causing the same end result in those who are unlucky to have it, and whether we pretty it up in pink (there is nothing pretty about cancer) or have problems dealing with the less ‘appealing’ cancers such as bowel cancer, or don’t even think of the ones that rarely get a mention – my cousin is currently 9 years into Fallopian tube cancer, and on the twelfth or thirteenth different course of chemotherapy – it’s not going away. My wife was diagnosed with breast cancer 12 years ago, and each day she is here is a miracle. Then there are all the friends who have been and are sick, and those who are no longer here.

A few things happened yesterday at the anniversary reception. I hadn’t given the event much thought, other than what to wear, booking a cab, asking the rain Gods to hold off so our suede shoes wouldn’t be ruined (and the Gods listened). Architect, Lord Foster spoke wonderfully well, I thanked Charlene White for her moving speech at the BC UK Spring Walk last year, and had a moment with Julia Bradbury outside the men’s loos – which I almost went in to by mistake – they have tinted glass in their loos, she said. I won’t ask why, I said. I looked at some gorgeous paintings, a Lowry, some Olympic art, a Henry Moore sculpture which I was told I could touch, so I did. Actually, I stroked it, it was that beautiful. What I hadn’t counted on was being brought to tears by my sister’s oncologist – it hadn’t occurred to me that he would be there. Whenever my sister and I went to see him, we wondered what colour bow tie he would be wearing. On the days he was more casually dressed, open neck shirt, no tie, he seemed like a different person. Just as Lord Foster started to speak, I saw the man with the bow tie and tapped him on the back. He turned round, looked at me, I flashed my name tag towards him, he paused, and I said, Shelley, Leah Israel’s sister. He stepped back and took a deep breath. I’ve never seen my sister’s oncologist without my sister. Ouch.

And of course my sister’s oncologist knew my wife’s oncologist, because cancer is cancer. Yes, it acts differently in everyone, and there are so many different treatments, and every day a new trial is underway and some breakthrough drug is available, and it works for some people some of the time and for a few people it works really, really well. Six months after my sister died, the treatment she had been seeking for several months on the NHS (which she eventually did have and partly self-funded), and which was denied by her PCT because it had not been approved in this country by NICE, (although was available elsewhere in the world), was approved by NICE.

I met some lovely people last night, caring people, who donate and do what they can for a charity that is relatively small compared to its higher profile cousins. I say cousins because they are all related, all the cancers, and treatments and drugs that cross over the cancers. Yes, there were some famous people there, apart from Lord Foster (I wouldn’t have known it was him if he hadn’t spoken) and Julia Bradbury (see above), I actually wasn’t looking to see who was there, because the famous, the people off the telly, are people, they do what the rest of us do, they suffer from the same illnesses and eat and go to the loo, they get angry and tired and frustrated, except, the one thing those people off the telly do, which the rest of us can’t, is make a difference to how the public perceive just about everything. They matter because we listen to them. I know there are many well known people who talk about their cancers publicly, but if more famous people with some of the less ‘fashionable’ cancers came forward, imagine the difference it would make. Some people moan about breast cancer having such a high-profile, but that’s because of the celebrities who come out about cancer. When I was growing up, cancer was never discussed, people used to say the C word, as if it was a secret code. Some people still say the C word. We all know what it means.

I had a great conversation with a trustee, and the CE of Bowel Cancer UK and various other committed people. I decided that the culture in the UK, particularly when it comes to the middle classes, is to not say anything about anything and hope it will go away – particularly in relation to health. The trustee told me that generally, in Scandinavian countries, their cancer survival rates are higher NOT because their medical care is better, but because they are diagnosed sooner. They are more at ease with their bodies and bodily functions, and they have no qualms about all the things most of us over here find too embarrassing to talk about, so while they do talk about it and do something sooner, generally, we wait. We wait and wait, and often it is too late. I’m not for one moment saying early detection guarantees that you’ll live to a grand old age, but it will give you more of a chance. But how do you change a culture?

I also discussed the government and their issues around charitable donations, and how children’s charities and animal charities do really well, but anything to do with the elderly or the less appealing charities/cancers receives much less funding. I’d always put a child ahead of me, always, but an animal, I’m not so sure. Sorry animal charities, I love my cat, she brings me enormous pleasure, but she is a cat.

After wine and canapes, a quick look out of the window to Horse Guards Parade, and a partial view of the gardens at No 10 (I was pleasantly surprised to see a small, raised vegetable patch,) I went to say goodbye to my sister’s oncologist. He does have a name, but to me, he will always be my sister’s oncologist. I told him how Leah and I used to take bets on what colour bow tie he would be wearing, and when he wasn’t, well, we weren’t very happy about it. And my sister’s oncologist told us a story last night, about when he was twenty-five his father was found dead, and left him a considerable selection of bow ties, no money and three pieces of advice. I’m sure he wont mind me sharing those with you. 1. Never play cards for money on a train with a complete stranger (because my sister’s oncologist’s father and his father’s brother, saved up to send their other brother to Canada, and he played cards with his fare money on a train with a stranger, and lost the lot). 2. Never book a restaurant for three. They always give you a table for two and squeeze in a third chair. Always book for four. 3. Never go for lunch at 1. Either 12.30 or 1.30 as the world and his mother go for lunch at 1.

My sister’s oncologist seemed more human to me yesterday, sharing personal information, telling us how privileged he feels to be doing the job he does. He said people come to him and give him specific times of their lives, bits of their lives and he feels fortunate. He said he really liked my sister, she did very well, given how sick she was, and I said I wish she had been here to know the genesis of his bow ties.

I left No 10 feeling sad and hopeful, but very aware that all cancers matter, that none is better to have or more appealing or favourable. There is nothing favourable about cancer.

full Guardian feature

Not gay = in a melancholy mood.
Ex gay = your ex is gay.
Post gay = you might have to pay a delivery fee.
Proud. YES. ALWAYS.
I am not a piece of meat. You cannot cure me.