Editor’s letter
I’m snuggled up on the sofa with my butcher half when it happens. We are resplendent and utterly ridiculous in matching tartan dressing gowns, watching Carol for the zillionth time. Clutching our mulled wine, we make toast after toast. “To gloves!” “To lesbian longing!” “To Cate Blanchett’s cheekbones!” And it’s then that the realisation hits me.There it is, “flung out of space”. I am a lesbian Christmas cliché. And I’m ok with that. In fact, I kind of love that. I mean lez face it, in many ways Christmas is already as camp as… well, Christmas. Overnight the shops are suddenly in full drag, each desperately trying to out-queen each other with their window displays of eleganza extravaganza. Sequins are suddenly perfectly plausible daywear. As a proud, fashion-adoring femme, I like to lean hard into all the glitz and glam. Merry, gay and slightly squiffy on Baileys is my December happy place. Decked out in crimson velvet and vintage, novelty brooches, I am your quintessential ho-ho-homosexual.