My Godmother, Georgie, was the first person to whom I came out. It was the early 1990s and, though outwardly cheerful, I was utterly fixated by what other people might think of me. I had come of age during a time when public displays of affection were illegal and politicians blithely described gay people as phoney half-beings who did not have families or merit happiness. Summoning my paltry reserves of courage, I wrote to Georgie who, within 48 hours, wrote back to say, “Darling! I’ve been trying to drag you out of the closet since you were 12”.