GBF

 

It was when, after just a few weeks of working at my old job, I was given a beautiful birthday cake from Konditor and Cook topped with massive, flamboyant curls of chocolate and my relatively unknown colleague said to me 'I based my cake selection on your hair'. That was the moment I knew. I had found my gay best friend. 

My GBF and I bonded over the same things that any young ever-so-feminine man and single girl do. Tales of relationships - both long term and not at all long term - a love of glitter, fashion and of course Madonna. The fact that we worked in a job involving nothing but lingerie and swimwear was the cherry on this perfectly formed friendship cake.  On a bad day, he only had to emerge from the samples cupboard with a sparkly Melissa Odabash cut-out swimsuit worn over his jeans and my mood lifted.

We have been through a lot together - a joint hatred of a former evil Account Director, simultaneous food poisoning in Europe's largest shopping centre, his shame when he asked out our Brazilian courier who never returned to the office again, my shame when I fell down the stairs in a gay club surrounded by jeering homosexuals, and an ever memorable night in a The Haymarket Hotel when we tried on thousands of pounds worth of womens underwear and pranced around in his n hers matching fluffy dressing gowns.  He has watched for the boss as I napped on piles of cashmere robes, he has facebooked me in despair when his father is making him watch football and we have sung countless harmonising acapella Beyonce duets.

And today is his birthday. And I love him.