Last night a gay man cried in my arms about Prop 8. 

"Well surely that's no surprise, you being an OS reader and all ...."

In fact, it wasn't what I expected at all when I left the house.  I'm straight and I  lead a very conventional life as a middle aged mum and businesswoman in a university city .... in England.  However, the one thing I've learned about my life is that you couldn't make it up if you wanted to.

I try, not always very successfully, to put myself in other people's shoes.  Often it's the small things that bring home what it must be like to be another person.  Years ago my daughter had a thought-provoking children's book which posited a world in which roles were reversed.  Black people were the master race and white people were slaves.  One tiny detail hit home for me.  Sticking plaster came in one colour only- black.  

I found this so telling.  In the UK sticking plaster comes in two types: fun plasters for kids which are typically silver with pictures of dinosaurs and flesh tone.  Flesh tone plasters are various shades of orange.  Most British people aren't orange.  (A minority are, but luckily they live happy and fulfilled lives, with careers as personal trainers or games show hosts.  One leading member of the orange community has even amassed a huge fortune by devising reality TV shows, thereby bringing joy to millions.  Thank you for the music, Simon).

For most of the rest of us, including pale Celts like me, flesh tone plasters are a very crude approximation of our skin colour and look tacky.  However, for the substantial minority of the population who are of Afro-Caribbean ancestry these little things don't say"we're all different" but "you're really different, mate, and the sticking plaster industry ain't meeting you halfway on this."

So back to last night and Prop 8. 

I've been attending my Wednesday night activity for about ten years now.  Dan is a much more recent arrival and had joined us twice before last night.  The first time he told us nothing about himself.  Second time round he disclosed that he lived in the US but was back in Britain for a while to sort out some business and that he was gay.  (In fact he merely referred to his husband, but I'm very quick on the uptake).   

Last night while we were clearing up coffee cups and stacking chairs he and I chatted about the very confusing traffic system in our city.  Suddenly he said: "Can I dump something on you? I'm upset about something that happened in California."  "Ah," I replied sagely "Prop 8?" (Like I said, I'm quick).

Then it all tumbled out- growing up in a country (ours) where being gay was still illegal, then waiting until you were nearly sixty to be told (again)  that your love was in some way not real and true.

I tried to comfort him as well as I could.  I won't repeat what I said;  it was hardly original and feels private.  I did tell him about my daughter's 14 year old friend who came out to his parents recently.  His dad is a highly decorated ex-military man.  Both parents are very supportive and proud of their boy, so something must be changing.  (My daughter's friend is a very talented singer and dancer and has already had a major role in a West End musical- like I said, you couldn't make this up if you tried).  For my daughter and her contemporaries, whether someone is gay or straight is as relevant to how you treat them as their eye colour or whether they can roll their tongue.

As I drove home I thought about  another incident from a few weeks back.   I was walking along the street in London with two other gay friends on a warm Spring night.  They have been together for twenty years and are very happy.  As they bumped along together, occasionally brushing shoulders,  it suddenly struck me that any other people I knew who were this close would have linked arms or held hands.  And I wanted to cry.