Stuart had great sex with a man who loved him unconditionally. Himself. The result of this beautiful exchange was a small jar of sea monkeys, who, once their crowns fell off in the high tec spinning device became perfect genetic material to make two friends of the same sex very happy mammas.

The sea monkeys helped create Orla May, and Orla May is three months old already and the reason we’re sitting on a plane right now five hours from touching down at Heathrow.

My role in the trip is to carry the torch, just light the path for him so he knows where he is with it at all times. He’s going to meet the daughter he helped create, and he’s not entirely sure what will happen to his throat and whether his heart will fall out of his mouth when he sees her eyes (which we already know are the same shade as his) and smells the sweetness of her skin.   I do know that I will be a little wet mop in the background; but I’ll just concentrate on holding the torch so he has light and clarity around what’s going on for him.

Right now we’re 30,000 feet in the heavens on our way to London. He’s masked and trussed beside me, in an airline rather than dungeon kind of way of course.  Being a nervous flyer, I had drugged myself prematurely (premature edrugulitis?) and they’re done with me and I just have the lingering sense of exquisite calm that small white pills can leave as a farewell gift. I think it’s around 1 am and we’re due to land bout 5. The secret royal tour is about to begin.