At the lesbian and gay London Mardi Gras, there was a queue for the Portaloos. I was desperate. Soon I would not only be the straightest, dullest person there, but I would smell of pee as well. Disco music throbbed from speakers. It was such a colourful day that it took my eyes a while to adjust. Pink-spangled bikinis, sky-blue wigs, silver eyeshadow - the gay men were elaborate. The "sisters", on the other hand, wore a lot of denim and khaki and mostly sat in groups eyeing the "fun" with curled lips, while the men jumped and shrieked with delight at everything.
The queue was moving fast - but not fast enough. Suddenly, a young man was at my side.
"You're pretty," he said. "Do you do threesomes?" He was so stunning, so breathtakingly gorgeous, that the part of my brain not concentrating on controlling my bladder thought: "Whatever you say." Mutely, I showed him my wedding ring.
"Do they still count in your world?" He was touching my hair, sadly.
"Must pee," I stammered. It was safe. It was true.
"Right!" He sprang into action. He said that, as soon as he spotted a door opening, he would blow his whistle and I had to run as fast as I could to beat the person at the front of the queue.
"But that's unfair," I hissed, sweating now. Again, he gave me the sad, head-tilted look. It asked: do queues count in your world, too?
"But it's fun," he laughed. "Wheee!" He blew the whistle and obediently I hurtled past the girl at the front of the queue, hurling myself into the stinky lavatory. I knew he'd be gone by the time I got out. After the immense physical relief had passed, I felt a sense of loss for my new friend. He really was the most beautiful person I had ever laid eyes on. No matter that he had obviously taken at least a dozen Es, that I was married and he was as gay as a Highland fling - it made me breathless just looking at him.
But when I walked back past the queue, there he was.
"Oh, you were so great. Did you see her face? Classic! What a laugh. You're fantastic. Let's be friends for the whole day. Only mates, though, because you're an old-fashioned girl, right?" He winked at me, knowing that in another life, another dimension, something along the lines of a planet of no inhibitions on Star Trek, I was throwing my clothes in the air.
He was 17. Ecstasy and striking good looks gave him confidence beyond his years. We parted blowing wildly elaborate kisses at one another. How cruel his world is - to torment the rest of us with its anything-for-fun, eternally teenaged lifestyle.
Occasionally, I go to church. This Sunday, it was a "Family Service", which even parents loathe. We have to keep our Hellions quiet, putting on Christian-like airs and graces and mumbling "Don't do that, darling" through gritted teeth.
A group of young men was sitting behind us. They were smart: in chinos and fashionable short-sleeved, checked shirts. They were very camp. The vicar's helper rushed over to them, holding out his hand.
"Delighted to see you again," he smiled. The group stood up and, one by one, hugged him. At the microphone, a woman reminded us that "this is a family service, so children stay in".
The lads behind my two restless babies groaned dramatically.
"Shall we stick it out or wait to see how bad it gets and go to Starbucks halfway through?"
The vicar began reading Acts 2:42.
"This is going to be an exciting experience," he said, with typical happy-clappy enthusiasm.
"Ooooh," giggled one of the boys. I laughed into my hymn sheet while the boys sang loudly and prayed fervently.