I am fresh out of the shower, wrapped in a full-length tartan dressing gown, and sipping on a dry martini with an olive. I’m about to indulge in one of my very favourite festive traditions, watching the greatest (and pretty much the only) lesbian Christmas film ever made. It’s glove lunch time, baby, because tonight mama has a date with Carol. Again.
My girlfriend is cosied up next to me. She’s in joggers and a hoodie, despite my suggestion that we both don vintage apparel for the occasion. With the determination of a gay lady gagging to get laid in 1952, I throw her my best mid-century smoulder and murmur, “My angel, flung out of space”. Her face is blank. I can only assume she’s preoccupied, trying to figure out why I’ve taken to abandoning pairs of leather gloves around the flat. Or maybe she’s wondering why, whenever we’re out and she’s got her beanie on, I keep dashing off ahead, then whipping back round to mouth, ever so seductively and ever so slightly out of breath, “Like the hat”.