Michael Harding: I'm as confused about masculinity as my cat
My cat is a sorry sight whenever some neighbouring queen comes around the yard
There is something graceful about leaving the future in the hands of the young
I was at a wedding recently. The bride wore a yellow dress, and a garland of freshly picked flowers, and after the ceremony she walked through an orchard with her groom, as friends straggled behind them with champagne flutes; everyone in procession towards the river bank, to toast the newly weds, under the sacred oak trees, beside the water’s edge.
Most of the guests were young, but for emotional security I clung to the older folk. We hobbled behind, at a distance; an old brigade of aunts and uncles, old soldiers, dazed clowns, retired teachers, the hard of hearing, and other afflicted old dolls. And we indulged ourselves in memories of other weddings long ago, when we too had energy to dance all night.