I adored university. No one judged you by the music you listened to or the clothes you wore. Suddenly I could relax and be myself long enough to find out I actually liked it. Suddenly I had friends, without even really trying. In summer 2000 I was the gayest thing since Liberace’s underpants; all bleached hair, tight T-shirts and blue contact-lenses. In my first serious relationship, I held my boyfriend’s hand as we walked through Piccadilly on my first Pride march. And I was proud. Fiercely so. Proud of who I’d become and everything I’d achieved; everything I’d finally earned.
