My Favourite Place

My favourite place in London is the National Portrait Gallery. Every Thursday and Friday it is open until 9pm, and on the last Thursday of each month, I go there to pay to pay homage to the beauty of its exhibits and serenity of the building that houses them.

Tonight was a special members only night, allowing cardholding members and their guests entry to the featured Gay Icons exhibition and the BP Portrait Prize.

I invited A along, who after accepting my invitation warned me that I wasn't "To wear anything cheap and flammable, natural fibres only darling!" Clearly paying me back for the polyester pants incident! (See - How Do You Mend A Broken Heart, July 2009).

I dutifully brought in an orange shift dress, black belt, houndstooth peep-toe stilettos and clutch bag to change into at the end of the day. A's response was to nip out at lunch time and pick up two shirts, 'model' them alia catwalk style in middle of the office, before deciding on the black one to compliment what I was wearing.

After stalking through the gallery for some two hours, during which time A displayed the metabolism of a a python who has missed out on a live snack, diving in every bowl of snacks dotted on the buffet tables throughout the gallery, we went to dinner.

I knew that dining with A would be hilarious and we laughed our way through two courses. We downed oysters (1 for me - which for the record I disliked, three for A who guzzled them down with the cheeky enthusiasm of a seasoned dabbler. Our mains of cod on a bed of pea mash for me, steak gratin for him. Can anyone tell me, why someone would find eating semi raw steak, topped off by a raw egg a pleasurable experience?

Walking home from the restaurant I couldn't contain myself from remarking "What a great evening it's been and here I am stuck with a beautiful gay man, instead of heading off home, to a hot man in my bed and on a promise" . A's nippy response "Well it's no picnic for me either honey" had us both in stitches! A perfect end to a fun evening.