Late this morning: I’m out for a run when I overtake Leasey and companion as they stroll past one of the haunts of Cambridge’s surreal inner-city cow population. I pause long enough in my exertions for Leasey to give me a hug and tell me that she needs to take me shopping for some new running gear. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
She points at my shorts and black-and-purple sleeveless running top and asks in her tactful way, “How gay do you look?!”
Look, kid, it worked for White Goodman—and he’s a hunk of red-blooded male.
Perhaps I need a medallion.