All – Page 14 – Chris Preston

Week two – settling in

Week two – settling in.

Saturday

Rocky Bay is a quiet secluded place and we make our own entertainment here, all centred around the community hall.

Omiha Hall - centre of the community — Omiha Hall – centre of the community

I still need to make wider connections and I’ve noticed in the Gulf News that there is lane swimming at one of the Primary Schools which has the only swimming pool on the island. Vicky is the person to contact, which seems a good omen. She replies to my email that there are sessions Sat & Sun from 9-10 as well as a couple of evenings during the week. I have to text her if I’m coming as they need 6 swimmers to open the pool. I discover that the pool is outdoors and there is no one around. Soon a woman arrives, and then Vicky turns up.

‘Is the pool heated?’ I ask.

‘Solar.’ is the reply. Apparently on warm days it heats up to 28 degrees, but today as it’s been cold, its 18 degrees. My mind goes back to Chris C from Out to Swim trying to get me down to the Brockwell Lido in London for water of 13 degrees. I decide to give it a go. There aren’t six people but Vicky opens up anyway and asks if I would like a lane put in. After the initial shock of getting in, the water is OK and I swim fast to keep warm. There are no pool markings and it’s difficult to see the end so no tumble turn practice. After 30 minutes my extremities are cold and I think it wise to get out. Vicky says she has a white board and would I like her to put a set up for me next time.

‘Yes please,’ I say between chattering teeth. I’ll go again as it saves a ferry ride to town.

By now I’m really in need of warming up and drive off to the Ostend Saturday Market for a coffee from the Hall. There’s a stall with celery seedlings for sale ($1 each) and also Broad Beans and Silver Beet – payment by donation (koha). In the excitement of seeing the Broad Beans, I leave the celery seedlings behind. Maybe they will have more next week.

It’s the start of the Walking Festival and I’ve signed up for the Friends of Dorothy Walk. I don’t actually know anyone called Dorothy and have never been a Judy Garland Fan, but I’m expecting to meet some gay people from the Island. We meet outside one of the eatery/bars which proliferate in Oneroa although no one is actually talking much to start with. Locals obviously know each other and so do their dogs, who have come for the walk as well. We all have to get our shoes scrubbed and sprayed with disinfectant to prevent Kauri die-back. This disease, which attacks the magnificent native Kauri trees on the mainland has so far, not made it to the Island and we want to keep it that way. Once we get underway, it’s clear that most of the walkers are lesbians with only half a dozen gay men.

We’re walking around the headlands on the West end of the Island past Fossil and Owhanake bays then back to our start point through the Vale of Tranquillity. Gradually I get talking to people. They look startled when I say I come from Rocky Bay as they haven’t seen me around. One of the volunteers has a partner who writes film scripts. It turns out that I know of her and we know all the same people who worked in theatre back in the late 70’s. The next thing I know is that I’m invited to Pink Drinks which, coincidentally are happening tonight. Last time I was here, I had no luck at all finding out where or when the Pink Drinks happened; now I’m all signed up.

The walk is great, with spectacular views of the rocky coastline. There’s a happy hour priced half pint in the bar at the end of the walk and I go home for a nap as it’s been a long day so far and I seem to have driven backwards and forth on the Island all day. The Pink Drinks are at Surfdale heights in a very posh house overlooking the whole bay. It’s packed with gay men who haven’t been walking and quite a few of the women from the walk have turned up. The host coaches the Auckland Gay Rugby team so they’ve all turned up as well. We bring our own booze but the hosts have catered. Plates of finger food are being passed around and there is a singer crooning away in the background. I find myself next to a good looking man in his thirties who turns out to be Canadian and a carpenter. I get his phone number as I’m going to need a wardrobe made. (Yes I really do need carpentry done – on the house). It’s raining on and off but there’s a gazebo on the decking and I look out over Surfdale and comment that the gentle slope of the sea-bed and sheltered conditions here make it extremely unlikely that any surf ever dumps on the beach. The chap I’m talking with agrees and thinks more could be made of this along with ‘Blackpool’ and ‘Miami’ two other suburbs of this Island of 8,000 people which don’t relate to their namesakes in any way. It turns out that this Pink Drinks is the early Christmas party, hence the elaborations.

Monday

It is forecast for rain but the day starts brightly. There’s an email confirming that the walk will go ahead and I set out from the house along my road to the track down to Whakanewha. I have to detour around the endangered Dotterel colony nesting here. They are fairly careless about where they lay eggs and there are signs purporting to be from the Dotterels themselves saying they need our help. Their territory has been fenced off and dogs are prohibited from the area. There’s quite a crowd gathered as there’s a photography walk happening at the same time. Just as we set out on the coast to coast trail, it starts to rain seriously. Just as well I’ve worn my bright yellow raincoat. We are partly sheltered by the bush as we pass through stands of Nikau Palms and tree ferns. It’s a gently climb up to ‘The Cascades’ – a series of pools and rocky falls through which the stream flows. Last time I was here in the height of summer, it was little more than a trickle. We stop to admire a few of the giant trees but it’s too wet to do much standing about looking up. After an hour and a half we are early at the Peacock Sky Vineyard for lunch. The owner welcomes us into the clear plastic sided atrium which has a gas fire burning. We can take our boots and waterproofs off before padding through to the counter and paying for our pre-ordered lunch which includes a glass of their wine. We’re all a bit cold and while we wait for our wraps filled with either smoked chicken, cheese or vegetables to arrive the rain drives against the atrium sides in torrential waves. I’m sitting with a retired couple from the mainland and a young German guy from Saxony. When asked why he’s come to New Zealand, he makes us laugh with.

‘To escape the European winter.’

He’s just arrived in the country, bought a bicycle and will tour around until March. There’s a discussion about abandoning the second part of the walk as the driver of a local bus, who will take us back to our starting point, has anticipated that some people may want to opt out at this point. Just as its decision time, the rain eases off so the bus driver has only a few passengers and we set off, this time in open terrain heading for a reserve boasting a stand of precious Kauri trees. There’s a platform and we estimate that the huge ones are around 500 years old. There’s a sign saying ‘If you are lost, keep going downhill and you will come to Onetangi beach.’ We do this and walk along the rain drenched sand to Charlie Farley’s Bar for a coffee. We pay the bus driver $5 to get back to Whakanewha and I wend my weary way along the beach and up the hill to home.

Tuesday

There is no mains water on the Island so we have to manage with what we collect from our roofs. I notice that the agents have installed a meter on the tank and with all the rain, it’s full. This does not excuse being complaisant as during the dry months it is essential to manage water. There’re a few litres in the pipes before the hot water from the boiler gets through. Water from washing vegetables and rinsing out the teapot can also be reused watering pots or the garden. To avoid blocking up the soak pipes down in the garden, crumbs and other solids are thrown on the garden for ants or other creatures and grease and fat, soaked up with paper towels and put in the rubbish. There’s reasonable mixed recycling here and I have a compost heap. The urgency now is to get rid of the foreign weeds choking the bush trees and do some planting before the summer hits in.

I have to guess how long it will take to get to my next walk at Orapiu further along the Island. There’s road-works going on, which are much needed, particularly now that Waiheke is such a huge tourist destination. I’m there in plenty of time, but I’ve got it wrong. The walk is tomorrow and I’ve put it in the wrong day in my diary. Just as well I’ve got a fancy phone with 3G and can check these things out. It’s back to the garden for the afternoon before trying out the alternative ferry service to swimming training on the mainland. I have fifteen minutes to shower, get changed and then run for the 8.15 return service. I make it.

Wednesday

It’s going to be one of those driving backwards and forth days. I need petrol and stamps so have to go to Oneroa where I can also spend some time with the amazing Eileen at Waiheke First – my letting agency. I have some improvements to run past her and she has time to chat. My lettuce seedlings have failed to germinate, so need to buy some plants and then it’s on to the Native Plant nursery where I buy Kauri trees and several other plants, including a Kowhai. This has a pendulous yellow flower much loved by the nectar eating Tui.

Kowhai can these days be spotted in London gardens along with Pittosporums, Cordyines and Phormiums (flax) – all native to New Zealand.

I’ve had an email from the Walking Festival with instructions of where to meet – it’s all highly organised – and when I get to Orapiu, there are a couple of volunteers already there. By contrast, the day is beautifully sunny but we have to wait for a bus to arrive with participants who have come from the ferry plus some who have done a morning walk at Man 0’War Bay all of which is complicated by the road works and the fact that the bus can’t do the Island loop road and has to go back and through the road works twice. It’s all OK and we are only 30 minutes late starting.

This is Waiheke, it’s a lovely day and no one is in a hurry. Our leader, one of the conservation officers has a loud voice ideal for outdoors and we follow him up the road and over private land (by arrangement) down to Pearl Bay.

Access to this beautiful secluded bay is supposed to be by boat, but there is an unofficial track over private land at the bottom of which is a collection of 4WD vehicles. Some of the batches are very old and derelict; others are modern, pristine and grey. The whole bay is a reserve and is home to an oyster farm.

We walk along a paper road (put on a map in planning stages years ago but the terrain made it impossible to build) to the beautiful Otakawhe Bay.

Here the locals have been weeding the bush and planting Pohutukawa trees which have bright red flowers at Christmas.

We see examples of before and after weeding. The ubiquitous Agapanthus, which UK gardeners struggle to nurture, self seed here rampantly taking over the countryside. Contrary to popular belief, they don’t stabilise banks and here they have been removed. We end our walk back at Orapiu where we started.

Triumphs & Tragedy at the ASA National Masters

Triumphs and tragedy with some near misses at the ASA National Masters swimming meet

It’s my last race meeting on this side of the world for at least two years, so it’s a bit of an emotional weekend. I’ve had a fantastic year around Britain (Swansea, Crawley & Barnet Coptal) and Europe (Amsterdam, Prague, Paris, Copenhagen and Barcelona) with my club Out to Swim. There’s been great team support and camaraderie, not to mention adventures and laughs. I’ve a drawer full of medals, but there’s no chance at Sheffield this weekend as all the 60 year-olds have flooded into my age group, not to mention the 62 year-olds who did the same last year. I’ll be happy to maintain my times and by the time I return from New Zealand in two years time and in another age group, there just might be a faint glimpse of a bronze medal.

Lucille & Lizzie after their 1500 Freestyle

Team-mate Michael and I travel up on the train on Friday morning. He’s been ill, away on holiday and hasn’t trained for three weeks. We discuss on the train the advisability of doing the 100m Individual Medley with a chest cough. I’m only doing this event because coach, Martin has decided that I’m a medley swimmer even though I don’t like breaststroke and butterfly is exhausting. By the time we get to Sheffield, Lucile (6^th) and Lizzie (4^th) have already swum the exhausting 1500 freestyle. This event has taken all morning as swimmers’ times range from 45 to 16 minutes and there are15 heats divided between two pools. Lucile says she’s exhausted but looks great.

I should explain. Ponds Forge pool is 50 metres + and for this event is divided by a bridge into to 25m pools. The men swim at the north end and the women at the diving pool end, unless there are mixed heats.

Lizzie & Chris show off out new club gear

I’m always nervous at least until my first event is underway. There’s an empty lane next to me in the 100 IM where Michael should be, but he’s wisely decided, with head coach Michelle’s encouragement, not to do it. As it’s only the second time I’ve swum this event, my time is ok and I’m looking forward to the 50 backstroke. In the mean time, we’ve got to look after three young guys who are competing for the first time ever. It’s so confusing getting into the right place at the right time with no marshals, you just have to get to the blocks your self and if you don’t the starter doesn’t wait. We rally round the new guys getting them to warm up and we take them down to the starting area to make sure they don’t miss out. JT is one such and does a very creditable 100 IM. In the same event, Oscar, improves his time from the Montreal international meet. It’s all going so well, with Lizzie winning gold in the 200 fly but my 50m backstroke is fairly slow. After tea, there’s a personal best in the 100m Freestyle – something I thought would never happen. I have to give new boy, Leo some credit for this. It’s his first race and he’s in the lane next to me. We used to train in the same lane, but lately he’s moved ahead, so I know he’s a bit faster than me. He takes of in a great splash and I keep him in my sight line. He’s swimming faster than he’s ever swum and so am I, albeit several seconds behind – still it’s the right conditions for a PB.

We all go back to near the hotel and try to get into a couple of pizza/pasta restaurants, but they are all fully booked and we can only queue at a noodle bar. It’s carbs we need to stock up on so it blandly serves our purpose. The youngsters are off out looking for a gay club in the city realising that they don’t have any races in the morning. Older and wiser, the rest of us go to bed, certain that they won’t find much of interest here.

First up for me on Saturday is the 400 Freestyle. I’ve done this event only once in 2013 and I’m nervous about counting the 16 lengths as there are no flip boards. I can often loose count around about 12 or 14, but make a concerted effort and come in with another PB. The news on the relay front is not good, however. One of our team has had to withdraw with a shoulder injury – common with swimmers – and we have to put in a substitute into the 4 x 100m freestyle event. In all good faith the team captain the info in 90 minutes before the event, but nothing is ever simple and the rules are 90 minutes before the session, i.e. at 7.30 this morning. There’s no time to relax however as we’ve got Oscar, Lucile and Lizzie to cheer on in the 100m Butterfly.

Michael thinks he will be OK to swim his 100m Breastroke in the afternoon, We can see that it’s a struggle and in the end he’s beaten to a bronze medal by a fraction of a second. Next up we have our three new boys in the 50m Freestyle. They’ve warmed up and we’ve sent them down in good time. Their heat comes up and we can see three empty starting blocks in the middle of the pool where Out to Swim should be. The guys are huddled to one side unable to work out which heat is starting and trying to look at the board, which can’t be seen from underneath. We all start yelling at them as the three whistles have sounded. Suddenly they get the message and scamper to their blocks and are away. Whew!

I’m following this with the 200m Backstroke. This time I only have to count up to 8, but it’s not that easy. I’m in the habit of counting my strokes to the flag and then 4 more before flipping over to turn. For some reason I’m too close to the wall at one end and too far away at the other. By this time I’ve lost count of the lengths and end up doing an extra one. I can see that all the others have stopped and the scoreboard has an F next to my name indicating that I’ve finished. I get out at the other end embarrassed and to the announcement that I am indeed disqualified ‘due to a technical infringement.’ You have to finish a Backstroke race on your back and I’ve flipped over. It’s also my worst time ever, so into the rubbish bin with that race. Now I’ve got to do 50m Backstroke in the 4 x 50 Medley relay. That only requires me to count to 2 and do one turn. I think I can manage that. I sort of make a resolution to do an extra session once a fortnight working on Backstroke. The problem is I just don’t swim it enough. There are loads of disqualifications this weekend, particularly in the Breastroke races. There are also loads of records being broken with award ceremonies going on at every break. There are European and British records falling and at least one world record that I noticed.

The evening session sees JT doing his first ever 50m Butterfly. He makes a very impressive start underwater and has a very good style but it is our Lizzie who makes the splash in this event and she’s grabbed gold in all three Butterfly events and follows this with a 400 Individual Medley. The last swim of the day is the 4 x 50 Freestyle relay which goes like a flash and I do a PB on my section.

Team Captain Tom has had the foresight to book a restaurant tonight so we mull over the day’s events, teasing the new boys about almost missing their race. Even though the clocks go back tonight, I opt for an early night, leaving the youngsters in their quest for nightlife in Sheffield.

Eating is always a problem, a compromise between having enough calories in the tank to race but leaving enough time between eating and swimming. As breakfast doesn’t start at weekends at our hotel, it’s cutting it fine. To make it more complicated they are dividing the warm-ups by age, oldies first. I make it to the end of this session in the main pool just to practice my backstroke turns and then go off to the diving pool to complete my warm-up. The 100m Backstroke goes well. I haven’t done such a good time since last year and I’ve come in 5^th in my age group.

The 50m Breastroke heats are next and we’ve got Michael with his dodgy chest swimming next to one of our new boys, except there is an empty starting block next to him. There’s no sign of our young team mate so we can’t even shout. Michael swims fast and amazes us all with a PB and a bronze medal. Several heats later our missing breaststroker returns from coffee ready to swim. Then there’s a problem with our 4 x 100 medley relay. Michael’s been put into it, but the start sheets have got the combined age of the team wrong and anyway Michael’s not up to swimming 100 metres of any stroke. We briefly consider a substitute but have to abandon the race as we’d only get disqualified.

Most people go home leaving a small band to wait for trains and to compete in the 200m IM and 800m Freestyle. It feels a bit lonely but the 200m IM turns out to be pretty exciting. Oscar slashes more seconds off his previous time and Lizzie wins a silver medal for hers, bringing her medal tally to 3 gold and 2 silver – her best ever Nationals. I’m bringing up the rear guard, being the only Out to Swimmer in the 800m Freestyle. I’ve come to like this event and feel less exhausted at the end than doing 100m dashes. I’ve also done another PB – that’s 4 in total, all in Freestyle. The message is clear; I’ve got to do some work on the backstroke. Now it’s just hanging around waiting for our train. I never get the timing right and it costs a fortune to change your time of travel, so time for a well deserved glass of wine, or two.

TIP Team Take on Barcelona for Bling

I’m waiting outside Piscina Sant Jordi in Carrer Paris for the Out to Swim Team. My sightseeing efforts of the morning have exhausted me but I’m somewhat refreshed by a snooze on a shaded park bench just around the corner from the pool. It’s not quite the same team we had in Paris as Michael W is away sailing. David D P M and Martin S (here to support us) are first to arrive followed by a surprise in the form of Anthony Hill, an OTS member I’ve never seen before. He doesn’t swim very often but as he’s on holiday in Spain at the moment, has decided to enter some races with the aim of encouraging himself back into training. Jerome B and Philippe B arrive soon after and Jerome is very happy to only do the 4x50m Freestyle relay so Anthony can swim freestyle or fly in the Medley. I make contact with the organisers of the relays teams only to be told that we should have entered on-line. ‘?Didn’t we get an email?’

‘No, I didn’t get any email.’

The pressure is off and suddenly we only have to concentrate on the three events we’ve each entered. David is anxious to warm up as he’s starting off in event 1, the 200 Individual Medley. I’d very briefly considered this race, but giving it a trial at the London Fields Lido a couple of times convinced me that 50 M butterfly and 50 M breaststroke are just too gruelling for me. Just as I’m about to warm-up, the organiser comes to tell us that we can enter relay teams after all. Panic – as we have to get everyone’s names, entry numbers and year of birth onto a piece of paper. Philippe starts writing it all down and I call out the info from the start sheets. As David and Anthony are in the pool already I have to search for them and find out what stroke they prefer in the Medley relay. We get it all down on the paper and I get on with warming up. The water in this 50m pool is deliciously cool and refreshing compared with the sweaty ambient temperature. There is no electronic timing here and thus no soft plastic pads at each end of the pool but it seems OK.

There is as usual a woeful lack of women competitors and they are running their races separately. This means that we get off to a stately start with one heat for the 200 IM for two women from different age groups and very different times. As is usual, the slow heats begin – there are only 3 men’s heats and David DPM is in the last. He’s pretty much up there on the first 50 (fly) and also with the backstroke. He’s loosing ground on the breaststroke and coming second and while we are all cheering him on, Martin says that breaststroke is his weakest stroke and confidently continues that if he’s one or two metres behind he can overtake – and he does – chewing up the leading guy, who is 14 years younger and starting to fade – to win. It’s a great start for the team who are by now cheering and clapping loudly. Next up it’s the 50m freestyle splash and dash where Philippe B (Bronze) and Anthony H (Gold) look in very good form. Philippe also gets a bronze for 100m breaststroke, which I miss as I’m getting ready for my 50m Backstroke. I’m in the first of two heats but the only one in my age group – still it’s a decent time for a gold medal. Unfortunately I panic at the finish, putting in an extra stroke and bashing my arm on the hard end wall. Everything is going so fast and with only three heats of men’s 100m freestyle (Jerome & David both took gold) the medley relay is upon us and we have to gather our team. Anthony is around, David has just swum and is getting out of the pool, but where is Philippe? Nowhere on poolside. I call out and Martin goes off to search. Jerome is at the ready to stand in for the 50m breaststroke when Philippe appears. He’s been out the back collecting medals and showing them off to his mates. Our combined ages give us a total of over 200 years and we are competing with two teams of 160+ and one of 120+.

As I’m the backstroker I get to start and apparently kept up with the younger swimmers. As I look back down the pool, Philippe is gaining ground on the breaststroke length. I wait, watching David establish an impressive lead with butterfly, which Anthony maintains with a great freestyle swim to win the heat and four gold medals for team OTS.

OTS Team Barcelona Philippe, Chris, David, Jerome & Anthony — OTS Team Barcelona
Philippe, Chris, David, Jerome & Anthony

We have a fifteen minute break in which I manage to eat a banana and then do a very gentle swim down, just picking up the pace towards the end. First up is my next event the 200m freestyle. Now, it’s fair to say that this is not my favourite distance, but I’ve persisted, often because it’s the only longer distance option in these events and I’ve put in a slower time (3.14.20 Middlesex 14). I’m in heat two and lane 1 (not my favourite lane) and am not the slowest on paper but he’s on the other side of the pool and out of my vision. I decide to take it long and easy to start with and seem to be level with the guy in lane 2. I’m keeping up OK until the turn when he pulls ahead. Note to self – get faster on turns. I can still see him ahead and gain some ground, trying not to push it too much, picking up the pace on length 3 to make up for the slow turns. By length 4, I’ve got enough left in the tank to catch him up and beat him by half a stroke, aided by not breathing for the last 8 strokes. Thanks to a bit of competition from this guy 24 years younger than me, I’ve come in at 3.08.47 and shaved 2 seconds of my BP. I’m loosing track of who’s won what but Anthony and David are in the heats after me (more gold) and then Anthony and Philippe are doing 50m butterfly (even more medals). There are only two heats of men’s 100 backstroke and at last a competitor in my age group. Jerome comes fresh from his 100m breaststroke event to swim the first length of the 4x 50 freestyle relay. There is one other team in the 200+ age group, one in 160+, one 120+ and one team are 100+. It’s clear that youth may predominate here. David catches up swimming second and Philippe holds on to our place. I’m last and we manage a third place (for more gold medals) beating not only our 200+ rivals but also one of the younger teams. There are gold medals everywhere and with a couple of silvers and bronzes, it looks as if we’ve pretty much cleaned up here. After the obligatory team photo for facebook taken by our lovely supporter Martin, we head off with some guys from Amsterdam, Austria and Manchester for a well earned beer.

The sports dinner is not until 22.00 so we are all planning to go and have a snooze. But by the time I get back to the hotel, sort myself out, there’s only time for 15 minutes before setting out for the restaurant. We are all starving and turn up on the dot of 10pm to be first in. It’s a buffet with wine included. We’re sitting with a couple from Helsinki, so the conversation is pretty international. I overhear that the Baltic countries who are members of NATO, are very nervous about Russia. One of the Fins describes Putin as ‘a Nutter’.

Hmm – interesting times. Suddenly, time has run out and I’ve got to go. My flight is at 6.20 tomorrow morning, so I have to miss the free party in favour of four hours sleep. Just maybe I’ll get back one day to see Gaudi’s cathedral completed.

Barcelona re-visited

My memories of Barcelona in June 2005 are entirely good, an elegant city full of great architecture and art which I enjoyed with my late partner, Phillip and joined by New Zealand family. This time it’s for the LGBT Panter Esports and I’m travelling alone to meet up with my Out to Swim team-mates. Last time, Ryanair dropped us in some remote airport miles out of town. They’ve moved up in the world and now deliver me to the main city airport connected to the city by a train. You have to know about this train, because the signs to it are not obvious and there are plenty of arrows pointing to taxis and buses. A card for 10 rides costs only €10 from a machine which takes VISA. There’s a bit of a wait for the train but it drops me only a few blocks from the Hotel Constanza. It’s taken most of the day to get here but I’m determined explore and reacquaint myself with this city.

This time I’ve got downloaded maps of streets and Metro on my phone so nothing much can go wrong. Out in the street, I can almost feel the elegance and style radiating from the houses. I find the La Rambala and walk down through the crowds noting that the sellers of caged birds have thankfully gone and there is only tourist junk and stalls selling flowers and seeds. I don’t linger except to notice at the very bottom, that the living statues have got ever more inventive, expanding to mini-stage sets and mechanical contraptions to entertain the audience. I find my way with the help of my phone maps into a fascinating labyrinth of tiny streets and squares leading back up the hill towards the Cathedral. Barcelona has become a party city. There are Museums, exhibitions and galleries on just about every street. Everywhere there are festivals and each square seems to have a temporary sound stage set up with music playing. On the sea-front a band are doing a sound check, in a small square outside a large civic looking building there is a political demonstration with red balloons and music. At the front of the cathedral there is a mediaeval band playing haunting music. Circles of elderly people are forming from the crowd to perform a sedate and elegant dance with tiny steps. The inside of the cathedral is worth a look, particularly for the impressively tall columns around the back of the high altar. Between the choir and the altar is a set of huge steps descending to the crypt – something I’ve never seen before.

It’s time to go and register for the games. David & Martin are not arriving until later in the evening & I’ve no idea what the others in our swimming team are up to. So when I get across town to Tarragona by Metro there’s not a soul I recognise in this brightly lit sports hall. I collect my plastic entry card, a yellow band for free entry to the party and a rather handsome back-pack with maps, info and promotional literature. A helpful guy shows me on the map where the dinner is to be held and I wander off to have a beer as I’m very thirsty. After another one, several handful of salted peanuts and olives I decide that it’s time to look for a bar. I’ve done some research and there’s a gay place which serves tapas. After a bit of wandering around, looking at the maps on my phone and trying to get orientated after exiting the metro, I find this place, a small bar with only two customers. It’s late by London standards, but night-life in Spain starts even later. Undaunted I order a beer, but the choice of tapas is quiche or Spanish omelette – both look unappetising but for authenticity I go for the omelette which is of course made with potatoes. It’s OK, and calorific but I don’t stay long, moving on to the area near my hotel for a top up of pasta from an Italian place.

Saturday is race day, but not until 3pm, so I’ve booked a ticket on-line for La Sagrada Familia – Gaudi’s great cathedral which I saw nine years ago. Begun in 1882, Gaudi spent 40 years working on it before he died after being run over by a tram. The last time I saw it, much of the first work was in need of cleaning and restoring and a start was being made on the nave with huge stone pillars surrounded by scaffolding. It’s a bit of a shock coming out of the Metro to see that the nave is almost completed and the whole thing has grown taller with cranes looking down on the already tall structure. La Sagrada occupies a small block of the city and it looks like a cuckoo fledgling bursting out of its tiny nest. The cathedral has expanded to take up all the ground and is now pushing upwards. The transept runs west-east and the nave north south. The tower on the west side has been cleaned, but seems somehow at odds with the newer work, some of which is concrete, awaiting stone cladding. The south end of the nave is waiting to be finished while there is clearly a huge spire being constructed in the middle of the building.

I’d read about the crowds of thrusting tourists in the area and how local people are pissed off with it all. It’s phenomenal – people everywhere and tour busses passing bye every few minutes. The best thing to do is to retreat to the garden squares on either side and allow the trees to mask the ugliness of the crowds. Here, only a few people have got the same idea. A group of Australians are having their photograph taken by another tourist, local people are enjoying the shade and a drunk is thrashing around in the bushes, trying to rejoin his mates after relieving himself. He manages to regain his composure once back on the path, symbolically dusting off his shabby clothes to remove any pristine foliage, possibly clinging to him.

Working my way around to the east side (I remember, with my family, being almost the only party sitting by the pond) I find there is a queue to sit on the stone wall and be clicked. Behind me the click of boule is more entertaining. A tour guide passes, explaining via headphones to her flock that boule is the most common game played by old people. They are all old and concentrating on their strategy, with studied aggression. A tape measure is produced to decide between two balls and one last throw sends rivals flying. I’m trying to decide if the new builders of the La Sagrada have interpreted Gaudi’s imprecise plans in keeping with the early work. The east towers have not been cleaned and I’d forgotten the bunches of grapes and fruit nestling on top of pinnacles along the nave. It takes a while to work out that the lower windows looking into the crypt are mediaeval in style and the whole thing gets more outrageous the higher it gets. Moving around to the east end – some of the oldest work – now cleaned, I can see that it does work even if the height may be out of proportion to its length. It’s time to go in and see what’s been happening in the last nine years. Then, a New Zealander was in charge of the project.

I’m waiting for my time slot when some tourists ask the ticket checker where to buy tickets.

‘Around the other side, but they are now all sold out for today. There are only 100 tickets available on the day. You need to book on-line, in advance.’

As I enter, the morning sunlight light streaming through a stained glass window is blinding. I can see that the interior is complete, all of a piece and absolutely stunning. The pillars in the nave seen nine years ago are impossibly tall. Tree-like they stretch to support the ceiling. Those around the ambulatory and altar are even taller; reaching up to what will carry the spire. There are many people inside, but not too many. Everywhere the stained glass brings in colour and the plain glass making up the entire south end shows up the colour of the stone pillars. I sit in the ‘quiet’ seats in the nave, momentarily irritated by northern Europeans talking loudly behind me. You can go up the towers by lift for a further fee, but these were sold out when I booked a few days ago.

It’s time for something to eat before swimming and a local ice-cream parlour seems OK, but in the end I go for a Greek salad (with spinach substituting for cucumber) and coffee. My next stop is Diagonal where the Jardins de Salvador Espriu look interesting. It’s a classy square with a fountain frequented by clean pigeons and a sculpture of two women rebels. It’s peaceful and an old woman in eccentric pink attire is asleep on the stone seating clutching a red and yellow check umbrella against the sun and with her feet sheltering in a plastic shopping bag. I sit and rest my legs, conscious that I shall have to use them soon for swimming. The swimming pool is a moderate walk from here and I arrive far too early. The atmosphere in the pool reception is hot and humid and I manage to find a shaded park bench around the corner for a snooze.

Copenhagen the morning after

The Morning after Pride

It’s rained copiously overnight with thunder and lightning but Sunday dawns sort of bright with some sun. I’ve got three things in the list today before flying out. First up is to explore the Christianshaun area a bit more. There’s the Danish Architecture Centre which looks interesting.

It’s housed in a big old warehouse and mounts temporary exhibitions. Today there’s one which greets me with the message that the exhibition is outside – in the city. It’s about sustainability and building for human beings and communities rather than the eye-catching design. The main feature is a plastic model of a circular student hall of residence (the Tietgen Dormitory) photographed by a drone. The images are printed and pasted onto the model. Bedrooms and studies face outwards while the living areas look into the circular central space. This apparently creates a community feeling where everyone can see (if they want to) what everyone else is doing socially. It’s been a successful social experiment.

Waterfront with National Theatre (L) & Opera House (R)

Other featured buildings in the exhibition include a bank just down from my hotel, the New Opera House and National Theatre. Upstairs is a small exhibition about Japanese architecture for family living in very small spaces. From the outside they are unremarkable but full of invention inside.

I walk a few blocks, intending to look at Our Saviour’s Church, which on a Sunday is supposed to open at 10.30am. It’s the one with the brown and gold spiral steeple. There’s a service going on and the tower is closed due to bad weather. King Christian’s church is having a christening which people are rushing to attend. The tower is covered in scaffolding so not currently photogenic. The Crypt however is open, displaying family memorials and wooden coffins, presumably containing bodies.

It’s raining again so I shelter under an awning by a bus stop waiting to be transported semi-dry to the Carlsburg Glyptotek, just near the Tivoli Gardens. Copenhagen has been flooded and the bus is diverted. Everywhere are fire-hoses pumping water into canals and harbour. As I walk down the side of the Tivoli Gardens, clinging to my very small umbrella, there are huge queues of bedraggled tourists standing next to their tour busses. They look very pissed off because the Tivoli Gardens are flooded. It’s still raining and I can see a few rain-coated dads with similarly waterproofed children in the soft play areas seeming to have fun.

Kitch woman with babies in Winter Garden

The Glyptotek looks like a much more comfortable option and I discover that it’s free on Sundays – no wonder it’s popular. Just as I make a start of the ‘Ancient Mediterranean’ section, there’s a text from David. He’s just seen Luci onto the train to the airport, is soaking wet and wonders what I’m doing today.

‘Come to the Glyptotek, it’s just around the corner from the station,’ I reply.

Several texts later he arrives and we sit in the Winter Garden, a covered atrium in the centre of the building. He dries out and after some lunch and coffee we investigate the collection. There’s a modern wing – out the back – accessed by marble steps and ramps which houses a very good collection of impressionists – Manet, Monet, Van Gough, Renoir & David.

Sorrow or giref a favourite subject here

God of Healing — God of healing in need of assistance

Of particular note is the Gauguin collection ranging from excellent early work to later Tahitian examples. If you’re a fan of Degas and ballet girls, then this is a good place for you – bronzes and paintings. There’s an accent on sculpture here and a vast collection of classical heads which have been ‘dug up’ minus their bodies and ended up here. Some of them are missing bits, so there’s a display of spare parts used to restore statues for exhibition purposes. We can’t see it all in our time left and now that the rain has abated we separately collect our luggage, meet back at the station to head back to London.

Marble relief — Oh my dear, what is he doing down there.

Pride in Copenhagen

The National Gallery of Denmark is on the menu today and one of the first things I notice; waiting at the bus-stop is that all the buses are flying the Danish flag on one side and the rainbow flag on the other. Public buildings are also sporting the gay flag – I can’t imagine that happening in London. The imposing gallery building looking all newly scrubbed, towers over me as I alight at the stop. It’s only just opening time so I’m one of the first. It’s free with a small charge for the lockers. There’s quite a good collection of French impressionists and several good Van Gough paintings.

Then there’s a section on European art and another for Danish and Nordic Art. It takes several hours to get through all this and then I discover a whole new wing of contemporary design

out the back and connected by a glass roof. There’s a café in the basement looking out on to a park – where I have a coffee break – and a sculpture street above to be investigated. I discover more stuff made after 1900 including Danish, French and international work where Matisse and Picasso can be found so I extend my visit.

I’ve had an email about the Gay Pride march, but the details are confusing and I’m under the impression that it all starts at the Town Hall at 1pm. There’s nothing happening here except bands doing sound checks for later and an old bearded man who has

acquired a blond wig, shouting drunkenly, ‘No music! F..k you!’ in a very loud voice. Eventually David and Luci arrive and we suspect that the parade is going to end here. We walk towards where we think the parade is coming and settle down for a drink and food, but realise that the march is turning off further up the road. Downing our refreshments, we make our way back to the rear of the Town Hall Square and manage to catch the start of the Parade and the Water Polo Boys who have been marching in the rain, in their Speedos. We resist the urge to join the march, and enjoy the pageantry which is more varied, elaborate and sophisticated that London Pride (we like a bit of vulgarity in London). The marchers squeeze into a narrow space leading to the Square and then disperse. We hang about with the Water Polo guys for a while before going to the Gay Street, which has been blocked off from traffic. Beer is on sale here for 40Kr but around the corner there’s a straight place doing it for 25Kr. So every time we need another round we go back round the corner to the cute guy with a beard. He’s pleased to see us and sort of OK with us flirting with him.

Studiestraede is full of plastic gazebos, sun-umbrellas and out-door seating. It rains intermittently so we all have umbrellas at the ready. Each bar has its own DJ with out-door speakers blasting out disco music. We wander up and down with our cheap beers enjoying the sights, but tend to return to The Jailhouse (from last night) where the men are sexier and the music better. We manage to find a place to sit under a gazebo and watch a crowd of people doing the most fantastic dancing in the rain. Some girls wearing Conchita Wurst tee shirts briefly stop to shelter from the rain. Then one of the British gay football teams joins us and I try to explain the joke about ‘Wurst Fu?r Alle’.

We try the sausages (wurst) plain and with chillies – they are delicious and somehow the afternoon stretches into the evening and I don’t have any more room for beer. The rain becomes torrential and people take shelter or melt away into the night. Miraculously the buses are still running.

Culture & Sport day two

Rosenborg Castle

Copenhagen, like Amsterdam doesn’t open early, so the café I’ve arranged to meet with David and Luci for morning coffee isn’t open. The one over the road is only just open and when the lads do arrive it’s time to make for the Rosenborg Castle where Thibault will hopefully be waiting. Having got my travel card and worked out how the buses run, I manage to persuade them not to walk all the way as I want to save my legs for racing later in the day. This means that they have to buy some bus tickets from the station. By the time we walk there, and then find a bus stop which we get off several stops too early, we’ve only cut our walking down by a half. Thibault is waiting patiently just inside the castle gate and having studied Wikipedia for information on this 17^th century royal castle, proceeds to tell us about it. David & Luci need breakfast so we can’t pass by the café until they’ve eaten.

Begun in 1606 by King Christian IV subsequent kings lived here until 1710. It has maintained a tradition of being a Museum, a storehouse for royal family heirlooms, treasures, crowns and thrones. We start with the treasury in the basement. There’s a whole room full of exquisitely carved ivory objects and just as I’m thinking about poachers, Luci articulates ‘Oh the poor elephants.’ There are also racks of Rosenborg wine which claim to be from the 1600’s. I can’t help thinking that they’ve probably long turned to vinegar by now.

There is a whole room devoted to Christian IV’s riding trappings from his coronation of 1596 – Jewel encrusted saddle and bridle. Further on there is his very elaborate coronation crown.

By 1671 the Danish kings had become absolute monarchs and there is the coronation crown used for 5 more kings called Christian. A queen’s crown from 1731 accompanies it. It’s all quite relaxed – we can stop and take photos through the glass cases – and I can’t help comparing it with the British jewel house in The Tower with its moving platform and elaborate security arrangements.

Upstairs, the castle is arranged in a sort of chronological order, giving a flavour of different kings furnished with tapestries family portraits and royal possessions. One memorable room is Christian IV’s toilet now tiled with Delft. There are, however, no bathrooms. Right on the top is one large room which houses a narwhale – tusk throne for the king and silver throne for the queen. They are guarded by three silver (plated) lions.

It’s now threatening to rain and we need to find food and digest it before 4pm when the swimming starts.

Originally the swimming was to take place over two days, but entries have been low and it’s all been condensed at short notice to Friday from 16.00 – 20.00hrs. I guess there are just too many LGBT sports meets around Europe. We are aware that we are only four in our team, enough for a relay at least, but lament the fact that not more OTSers have come. We’re envious of the Water Polo team turn out who are all having a fun time. Various theories are put forward for the low turnout, including the ascendancy of open water swimming (there’s the London swim this weekend in the docks – which turns out to be cancelled) but we don’t have any answers.

Having taken care of our cultural needs in the Morning, OTS team mate Thibault is in charge of getting us to the Bellahøj Svømmestadion. This is mainly because he’s already been there to support the Water Polo teams. But first we have to eat some lunch and happen upon a market food court. There are all sorts of healthy juice and salad bars and we buy that essential food for swimmers, bananas. There are only four of us but it takes quite some organisation to get us on the bus. Tickets have to be got – I have a 72 hour pass which is still valid – then there’s a problem with someone’s credit card in the machine and the bank has to be called. Thibault has to go back to the food place for his umbrella and Luci has to buy a towel. Eventually, we all get on a 5A bus which takes ages to make its way to the pool.

The bus drops us right opposite the impressive looking complex and we are early, so there’s time to enter our relay team details and also get signed up for the Rainbow Relay at the end. It’s one of those pools where you have to get naked and wash all the hairy bits before putting on trunks and getting into the water. Fortunately, no one is supervising. It all seems a bit random organisation-wise as it turns out that the warm up starts at three and the races at four, so we are not that early. Heat sheets are on the walls so we all have to keep our wits about us as to the order of events and which events we’ve actually entered and where the relays are placed. Fortunately the announcer is calling out names and lanes for each event. I’m the first to swim with 200 Backstroke which seems to go very slowly. Luchi is not looking forward to doing 100m Fly in a 50 m pool. He’s leading after of 50 M but five meters from the end, someone lowers a piano from the ceiling onto his back and he comes third for a gold medal. Thibault is really giving it a go with both 50 and 100 m Fly – it looks like hard work but it pays of as he’s got silver and bronze.

There’s a problem with the 4 x 50 freestyle relay which should come before my 100m Backstroke. I can see in the control box that the woman is still desperately entering our details into the computer. I’m ok with that as I prefer to do the backstroke first. We do have breaks in the programme to recover and then launch into the medley relays. It’s my third backstroke race and I’m longing to do a bit of front crawl for a change. However, we win a gold medal for our efforts in the 160+ age range.

During the second break there’s a syncro demonstration/lesson. A woman gets volunteers into the pool and does a lesson to create a small routine at the end – quite impressive.

David F seems to have all his races at the end with backstroke and breaststroke back to back (he’s still in the fastest heat and wins gold for both). Luci must have clicked a wrong button on registration as he’s suddenly called for the 200m freestyle, which is definitely not his style and David’s shoulder tells him that doing fly is not advisable today. Thibault briefly contemplates the wisdom of doing the 200 Individual Medley but realises that this is his best chance of a gold medal. It’s such an exhausting race, so five stars to Thibault. Finally we get to do our 4 x 50 m freestyle relay. We are probably first in the 160+ group, but someone – who shall be nameless – starts ever so slightly early and we are disqualified. The last race is the rainbow relay and we are all mixed up in teams of six and given different coloured caps to wear. It’s all good fun and relaxed. Cute guys are giving out medals with continental style kisses. We’ve had a great time and a laugh, we just wish there were more of us. (Stockholm – who are hosting the Gay Euro Games next year – brought a team of over 20).

The down side of so few competitors is that the programme goes too fast to recover between races. I’m the only one in my age range so am guaranteed gold medals however slowly I swim. I do like to have someone to race with even though coach Martin Purcell keeps saying ‘It’s all about the medals’. Our muscles are all full of lactic acid but we do have a truck load of medals just for him.

We head back to town to join the Water Polo Guys on an upstairs balcony bar. They have already eaten so we go downstairs and have the most gigantic burgers I’ve ever seen. The Polo youngsters are off to GAY, but Luci, David and I, after much discussion and looking at my trusty map, find Studiestrade (Copenhagen’s gay street) and settle down for an evening of research and observation which is of course, thirsty work. After a short investigation of Men’s Bar we come to rest at the Jailhouse further along the road which is packed with friendly guys.

Day One Sport & Culture in Copenhagen

What better excuse, if one were needed, to visit Copenhagen, than to compete in the Pan Gay Games for Out to Swim? Several others spring to mind: I’ve never been; my great grandfather was born here, ran away to sea and ended up in New Zealand; the story of the Little Mermaid was a child-hood favourite with Danny Kaye singing ‘Wonderful Wonderful Copenhagen in the Hans Christian Andersen movie.

There are only four of us going to swim. Me, Luci, David and Thibauld. I’ve exchanged phone numbers with Luci and found him on Viber so we can all meet up – hopefuly. It’s always nerve-wracking trying to work out how a city works. Getting from the airport to the centre thence to my hotel is, however, embarrassingly easy after deciding what travel card to buy and collecting free maps of the city. I’ve spent hours memorising the city from on-line sites and so easily find the Hotel Wake-up Copenhagen only a short walk from the station. It’s cheap (for Denmark), sparse, functional Scandinavian chic and the wifi works – for free. In fact there is free wifi of sorts all over the city and you can hear young people enthusing about it as they look at their smartphones. There’s been a change in the swimming schedule.

The races set for Thursday afternoon have all been moved to Friday and a warm-up/ training session offered by way of compensation. I’m thinking that it might be good to check out the pool – if I can work out how to get there – and support our Water Polo team. There’s a bus at the end of the road which will take me there, but I decide to go to the Town Hall Square first where Gay Pride is all set up and I think I can register for the games. Apparently the Prime Minister addressed the competitors last night, she’s Neil Kinnock’s daughter-in-Law. There is no registration desk today, but Luci and David are there eating and drinking beer. It’s hot and sunny, what reason do I have for not having a beer mid afternoon? Oh yes, we’re intending to go swimming and support the Water Polo Team. Three beers later we’ve abandoned the idea of gong to the pool. We vaguely talk about meeting up for dinner but viber hasn’t delivered on the communication front so anything could happen. I sleep off the beer at my hotel and catch a bus to my pre-booked evening canal cruise.

I’m very please with this achievement as my city map has all the bus routes marked. The exact location of the canal cruise is guess work and I’m also very early. There’s a floating pier decked out with rainbow flags in front of a posh restaurant and so I think this might be the place. I re-trace my steps slightly to the previously observed Malmo Café which looks as if it might do coffee and snacks. It’s in a basement and as the first glimpse reveals a pool table, it’s clearly not a café, but a bar, deserted but for the barman who is eating a takeaway salad in a plastic box. This kind of tells me that there is no kitchen on site, however they do coffee. I ask if there are any snacks like crisps or nuts. No, there are not. I drink my coffee and he eats his salad – both in silence. I pass the time observing the huge collection of bottle-openers on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Then it’s time to go for the boat trip. This time the open boat is moored and people are getting on for the second tour of the evening. We are all handed plastic rainbow flags and greeted by a blond wigged drag queen dressed in red and white stripes with basket-ball sized false boobs shoved down her jacket. She has a megaphone which in addition to amplifying her voice, plays phrases of music and police alarms. People arrive from nowhere and the boat fills up. We’re off, being guided by a man with a comedy script full of gay innuendo and risqué jokes. We cruise along past the stunning new Opera house which locals apparently call ‘The toaster’ then pass a huge concrete warehouse which we are assured was the venue for this years Eurovision. Crossing to the other side, we see the residence of the Royals and the rear of The Little Mermaid. Whenever we get close to the bank, our guide exhorts us to wave all the straight people. We do, and they wave back. Next it’s a look at the new, National Theatre that has a copper fly-tower which will eventually go green like other buildings in the city. We detour up a canal through the Christianshavn area. This is the only part of the City which hasn’t been burnt down (Copenhagen was raised to the ground several times) and consequently has architecture from different eras. We catch sight of Our Saviour’s church with its dark brown spiral tower. Back on the harbour we see the impressive and modern Royal Library and ancient military buildings from which cannons are still fired twice a day. Across the harbour we enter a canal which circumnavigates Castle Island. This area has more royal palaces, the King’s brew-house and the dramatic looking Old Stock Exchange. We wave at more straight people and they wave back. In spite of all the campery, it’s been fun and a good way of seeing the city. I’ve had a text from the tam-mates to say they are eating with the Water Polo guys near to my Hotel. I catch another bus and arrive at Bio Mio just as they are completing their orders. It’s perfect timing with a fantastic dish of pork and great blond beer. We swimmers are tacked on the end of the Water Polo Table. They’re all glad to see us – finally. They are playing next morning and we have to swim in the afternoon, so early to bed. Thibault says there are three cultural things we should see in this town and we arrange to meet up at the Rosenborg Castle tomorrow.

What to do on a rainy Bank Holiday Monday

It rained all day on Monday August bank holiday and while the Notting Hill Carnival crowds were shivering and sheltering under umbrellas my swimming club Out to Swim went white water rafting at the Olympic Centre in the Lee Valley. Mike & I took the easy route by train from Liverpool Street to Waltham Cross then a short walk to the centre. Others chose more challenging transport arrangements.

The Lee Valley White Water Centre is entirely man made, a fantastic facility with two courses, though only one was going when we went. The water is clean and chlorinated to swimming pool standard so no danger of contracting any exotic diseases such as might be found in muddy tropical waterways.

We started off with a welcome briefing where we were issued with wet-suits and rubber boots. Into the changing rooms to struggle into the tight fitting suits and emerging into the rain looking like the crew of the Star-ship Enterprise, we waited for a few stragglers to arrive. Then it was the fitting of life-jackets and helmets then the signing of a form which absolved the Centre of any responsibility in the case of an accident. We were divided into two teams and allocated a boat captain each. The guys did a sort of double act training us. How to rescue a man overboard was first up, then instructions on how to float down-stream feet first and grab hold of a rescue rope thrown from the side. In the boats we started in a huge mill pond learning the instructions: Forwards (paddle,) Back (paddle), Fast, Stop, lean left, lean right, get down. We then had to all jump in with a star shaped belly flop (no streamlined dives) and swim to shore. Next was to jump in a rapid and float down stream feet first then when instructed, swim to shore. They guys had advanced warning that we were a swim club so were confident that we could actually swim.

To begin the first run the boats had to mount a travellator which lifted us up to the start. We had a dash to be first boat up, which caused a bit of excitement. The others won that round. Our first run was more or less straight down which went pretty well. Only one man fell out but was rescued immediately. Gathering confidence, our next run messed about in some of the rapids getting drenched, having to lean over to prevent the boat capsizing – all great fun. Our captain confessed that they were hoping the swim club was going to be women and asked our name.

‘Out To Swim we’re a gay club,’ someone said.

‘We’re the butch ones,’ I added.

So, on the next run he asked if we wanted to be even more dangerous or would we like to do a straight run.

‘More dangerous,’ we shouted.

And so off we went several more times. On the penultimate run the captain warned we could flip on one rapid, and indeed we did. All fell out of the boat. I was momentarily trapped underneath emerging with feet facing upstream but still clutching my paddle. I managed to turn around and when the captain shouted that we should grab any spare paddles, I ended up with one in each hand which made it a bit difficult to swim. All along the course, rescuers were at the ready and I got thrown a rope which I managed to clutch along with the paddles, to be dragged ashore, backwards. When we emerged we found we were a man down. He’d had an argument with a rock and had gone to the minor injuries unit. There was time for one more run with only six in the boat. Hot showers finished off what was undoubtedly and unanimously the perfect activity for a rainy day.

Gay Dads Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It’s Nineteen Ninety and I’m feeling pretty good about myself. After twenty years, I’ve managed to finally give up smoking; I have a cute little boyfriend called Adrian and a whole house in East London bought for a song ten years ago. I’ve just done the design for a new play at the Bush Theatre and am going back to Theatre Go Round for their next kids show. I don’t let on about doing children’s theatre but it’s money and I can whack the design out in a couple of afternoons. More importantly I’m designing for a translation of a new German play to have a British premier at the Lyric Hammersmith Studio. The mortgage will be paid, what can possibly go wrong? Answer – listening to Radio 4. People often talk about where they were when import events happen. For me it’s always the same, I’m in the kitchen having breakfast and listening to Radio 4.

Thus it is one morning that the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Act is being discussed by parliament and some Tory tosser is complaining that Lesbians are getting free sperm from banks. There’s outrage that children can be conceived by Lesbians and on the National Health. Now the previous decade has been tough, what with AIDS and the scare mongering that has gone on. We’ve lost friends and ex lovers. Adrian and I have gone over it hundreds of times; have we always been safe? We have, but you never know and paranoia is a terrible thing. We’ve even been tested for other sexually transmitted diseases under false names, believing that MargaretThatcher is going to round us all up into isolation camps, although when questioned about confidentiality, the clinic assures us that there is no way the government could access our records. We are not mollified by this and don’t come clean. We leave feeling somewhat guilty that we’ve just cost the clinic twelve pounds each to open new files.

I don’t say anything to Adrian about the Lesbians and sperm banks, It’s an idea that’s growing; a possibility that I can help and strike a small protest against the regime and pass on my genes at the same time. It’s all quite muddled at the moment so I need to think about it.

Later in the week we’re down in our gay local, the Old Globe on the Mile End Road. It’s a narrow strangely shaped pub which has recently gone Gay. Pubs are in difficulty these days so that before going under, they try to ride it out on the pink pound. Adrian and I are classified as DINKYs and have a few bob to splash around. We say to ourselves that we’re only going in for the papers, I have a pint of bitter, Adrian a half of Guinness and we sit reading and watching the drag show. This week it’s Dave Lynn, who unlike most of the others, can sing. He’s also the only one who uses a male name, which for me at least acknowledges his gender. I’m not keen on drag and spend my time between wondering if this is an insult to real women and being intrigued how they manage to tuck their genitals away. It must be awfully uncomfortable. Adrian used to sing in the northern clubs and so enjoys this middle of the road music with a camp spin.

Later he says to Dave, ‘What’s a nice Jewish boy like you doing in this job?’

‘I get twice the money if I sing in a frock,’ he archly replies.

We walk home with the ‘gaypers’ under our arms.

‘How do you know he’s Jewish?’ I ask.

‘I just do,’ he shrugs.

I’m still thinking about donating sperm, the trouble is I don’t know any Lesbians, let alone ones who might want to have a baby. I’ve decided I don’t want to do all the nappy changing (occasional duty is fine) and the getting up in the night to warm milk. In the more sensible light of home I find the personal ads. They are mostly men looking for men and a few women looking for women. Surprisingly the mixed section is quite large. These include bisexuals or ‘Bi curious’ or straight couples looking for threesomes. There are, I notice these days, a growing number of ads for sperm donors from Lesbians. They range from complete anonymity with no contact required to ‘full involvement welcomed’.

‘What do you think?’ I say to Adrian.

‘I don’t think I could do the no contact required thing. I’d need to be involved.

‘I could do it, might be interesting to be contacted in eighteen years time. Kids want to know who their fathers are, don’t they?’

He shrugs. ‘It’s fine by me Mark; it’s not going to change us, is it?’

I sit down with the Pink Paper looking at the classifieds. I’ve long been fascinated by these adverts though never had the courage before to reply to any. There is a notice at the beginning of the section saying that ‘Men’s advertisements are accepted on the understanding that they are submitted by and addressed to, persons over the age of 21.’ It’s a reminder that we are still illegal under that age. There is no such disclaimer for Lesbians. The men’s columns, the most numerous by far, come from all over the country. Many ask for discretion (probably still in the closet) and older guys are mostly looking for something younger, while none of the young ones are looking for older. Some are just looking for fun and fuck buddies, others ask for photos and some want explicit photos. I’m not sure how you get explicit photos past the chemist; I’d need to invest in a Polaroid camera. It’s the mixed column where I find the sperm donors but they are interspersed with pleas for Lesbians to come forward for ‘beneficial arrangements’. Guys have fallen in love with foreigners who need to get married in order to stay in the country.

I notice that there’s a guy advertising himself as ‘Healthy’. He wants to father a child ‘positive role essential, would like someone caring. London area only.’ This week there are two possibilities for me, one advertiser seeking anonymity and another wanting to meet but have no involvement.

LESBIAN COUPLE seek anonymous donor. No involvement London areas. ALA Box 2267

And

LESBIAN, seeks sperm donor, no involvement. Oxford area, can travel. ALA Box 2265

I sit at the Amstrad and compose letters. I write that I’m happy to be anonymous but that if any child in eighteen years time would like to get in touch that would be OK as well. I also add that I’m intending to have and HIV test. I post them off to the box number with a stamped envelope inside each one and forget about it.

The woman from Oxford is the first to reply, by phone two weeks later. I’m slightly surprised that she’s phoned rather than written, but when I find that she is in her late thirties, I realise that she is probably in a bit of a hurry. Her name is Emily but she doesn’t sound like one. Her voice has warm cracked overtones of smoky bars and excessive jazz singing and she’s been a nurse. She seems quite vague so I press her about her circumstances and why she wants a child. He partner of ten years has recently died leaving her two daughters to look after. I immediately worry that someone is gong to take these teenage daughters away form her but all is well and neither the state nor her partner’s relatives have intervened. Emily says she is coming to London at the weekend and can meet us at a friend’s place, so a time is agreed.