Gay years are like dog years...

In the shallow end of the gay pool, looks and age count for everything. I sometimes overhear anxious conversations about the tragedy of entering your thirties and how awful that must be. The looks of aghast disbelief are comical when someone as old as me (or, heaven forfend, even older) stumbles into their plastic playpen. The badges of gay youth are, of course, music and fashion. Loosen your grip on those and you may as well commit suicide.

Of course, I'm not describing every young gay man here but there's a large enough minority to warrant mentioning it. While out on Sunday there were two occasions where I got blanked by younger gay men. The first time it happened was on being introduced to a certain young guy; by the look on his face, you'd swear that he'd just shaken hands with Hitler. The second time was the sneering discussion in the gents about what I was wearing (as if I couldn't hear them); apparently my trainers weren't bang on trend - another crime against humanity.

When I was in my twenties I had many gay friends in their forties and fifties; I looked up to them, I enjoyed their witty conversations and their company - I learned a lot from their knowledge of the world. I'm not asking for every gay in the village to cluster at my knee ready to catch each pearl of wisdom that drops from my lips. But they could at least wind their necks back in, shut their fat gobs and stop pointing when I'm dancing to the Nolans.

Gay years are like dog years: you're on borrowed time once you stop being a teenager.

Today's run at 18:13
Distance	5.16 km	Time	29:15
Pace	5:40 min/km	Cadence	80 spm
Comments: Cold & sunny.