I was sent on Monday for a rehab session in preparation for a 16 session rehabilitation programme. By ‘rehab’ I’m not talking drink, drugs or sex addiction. I’m talking sitting on a bike machine for ten minutes having your blood pressure, heart rhythm and heart rate monitored in case you feel a little queer and it’s a bit too much. The gym is next to Laser Quest and I had visions of getting the two mixed up in some awful search and shoot combat with a physiotherapist.
It’s not like any gym I’ve been to. The background music consisted of ‘Campdown Races’, ‘Thing Called Love’, ‘Save The Last Dance For Me’ ‘Clementine’ and ‘One Day at A Time’. On a loop. I was ready to stick a fork in my eyes after waiting 20 minutes, and am sure there was blood coming out of my ears.
They were nice and encouraging, and I think I ‘passed’ even if I’ve lost a lot of weight. The phsio is handsome with big hands and is one of those guys who can wear shorts and get away with it. I try never to wear shorts, as should be the rule for most British men.
I did the same sort of programme 11 years ago, except there was no gym and we just did a bit of running and jumping with the lovely Gordon. Who, I was convinced, had recently moved in as a neighbour. Which is why, officer, I kept smiling and waving whenever I saw him and flexing my muscles. Turns out, when I finally spoke to him and his sunbathing girlfriend, his name is Sam and he ‘just has a very generic face.’ ‘It’s a lovely face’ I said, transforming into an embarrassed and giggling 14 year old girl waiting to see One Direction. But they both now wave and smile, and of course everybody loves good neighbours.
Yesterday I met my parents’ next door neighbour. She suddenly launched into a torrent of what she thought was sage advice.
‘Are you the patient? You need to look after yourself.You need to find a good woman. You’re not married, are you?’
‘Goodbye’ I said and walked away.
My Doctor gave me the same advice 5 or 6 years ago. ‘You need to get married,’ was his prescription for a heart condition and high cholesterol.
I’m always vaguely insulted at being mistaken for a heterosexual. Not that there’s anything wrong with it – some of my best friends are straight. But come on, REALLY? I don’t walk, talk or act straight, so why would you think that? I’ve spent most of my adult life coming out over and over, and a lot of that ain’t easy. These days I don’t wear badges or t-shirts or carry placards.
But I’m still a Queen. Show a little damn respect.