I’ve just returned from a weekend in Paris with Rich. It was his birthday, and a bit of an impromptu thing as we both had three days off work and the weather forecast for here was very depressing.

Paris was amazing. I’ve been there once before, like eight years ago, but I think I was too young to really appreciate it. I was struck how friendly, beautiful and buzzing it was; and very different to english cities. Once we had worked out the rule of the roads is that very few people follow the rules, we walked miles and miles just exploring all over the city, taking in the atmosphere, raiding a patisserie every few blocks!

We walked up to Montmartre, discovering a fascinating Dali gallery on the way; we strolled beside the Seine; we window shopped outside the fantastic shops on the Champs Elyse; we oggled at just how big the Louvre is. The only disappointment for me was the lack of outrageously flamboyant Parisians that I imagined would be everywhere. Still, there are plenty to spot if you hang out in the mens fashion section in the Gallery La Fayette.

It was on the Saturday night, walking off to find a glass of vin rouge after enjoying the spectacular light display on the Eiffel Tower that Rich chose as the moment to reveal that he loves me. It caught me completely unaware, even though it was the perfect moment for such a revelation. For a few seconds I didn’t know what to say, but the romantic setting, wine from earlier, and slightly loved-up feeling made me want to say something, but as soon as I uttered “I…”, I knew I wasn’t ready to say it back, so I continued with “…think I’m falling in love with you too”. I’m not even sure that’s true yet, but it was obvious that this wasn’t what he was hoping to hear, even though he was doing his best to act happy.

For the rest of the evening my feelings kept rotating through guilt, anger, and confusion; guilt because he must have been excited about saying those words, and wanted to make the weekend even more special; anger because I felt pressured into saying something, and I’m not even sure that what I said is true, which leads me on to the confusion bit – I feel that I don’t now have the luxury of realising my true feelings in my own time, because I’ve already staked a flag on the emotional landscape – the starting pistol has been fired and the countdown’s begun to the moment when I can say it back in all certainty. It’s also taken away the power, for me, of uttering those words for the first time, as it will just be like delivering something that’s overdue.

Don’t get me wrong, it felt wonderful hearing him say it, but if I’m sounding like a drama queen about it, that’s because with those three words uttered, the stakes have been raised, and some hefty emotional landmines have been laid. And all I wanted was a gay weekend in Paris.

Changing topic completely, you Paris guys are hot! The pastries might be yummy, but the men are yummier, particularly the policemen, who look rather gay in their tight trousers, boots and caps, although I wouldn’t dare say that to one of them!