ELEANOR MARGOLIS
A decade is a proper wedge of time. Enough to clob someone over the head with, and do actual damage. On my 18th birthday, a decade ago this year, I spent what seemed like the whole evening (at a particularly bland sports bar in a south-west London suburb), bored and full of shots, making out with a female friend of mine. This wasn’t the first time I’d kissed a girl, but it was early days in my career as a full-on gay. At that point, I’d been doing stuff with boys for a while. All of which had been about as erotic as a shoulder massage from Captain Birdseye.