Lest ye be judged

It’s day five of Ray’s pilgrimage and all’s well.
After my night in the bathtub he expressed his mortification and graciously resolved to camp out in my bathroom with the rubber mat and sleeping bag he’d brought with him. Momentary guilt was swiftly overrun by relief and we haven’t had a bad night’s sleep since.

I haven’t seen much of him during the day – he headed to the big mass (sans Pope) yesterday and came home absolutely knackered, although he was pleased he’d taken his step ladder to taker better photos (and infuriate the pilgrims unfortunate enough to be standing behind him).

Anyway, Cheap Gay Beer night at the Oxford this evening had its queens on the smoking deck making fun of the amassed groups of visitors outside – notably the assumption of their repressed sexual urges and their tendency to dress alike – and the irony did not escape me as I surveyed the crossed legs and coordinating cotton casuals around me…
Having taken Ray to the gayest non-gay pub in town, the Green Park, on Sunday, and witnessed its layers of surveillance and whispered asides, I do question our own (self-)judgment.