I have good reason to appreciate the beauty of gay relationships

LAST Wednesday was probably the hardest day of my life. At the grand old age of 37, I thought I was too young to be carrying the coffin of my partner.

We always hope and imagine we’ll be too old instead. But there I was, five-and-a-half years

I had always said that if anything ever happened to either of us, we’d take each other home. I kept my promise. Somehow the fact that the sun was beaming over France and the flowers were in full blossom made matters worse. It should have been a perfect day together, wolfing down almond croissants and drinking pastis in the village square. Instead, it was a day for bitter au revoirs.