Dear Diary,

You may already know that I am not a big fan of football. Or many sports in general. Chess makes a bit sense; it’s a mind game in the guise of a war plan. But lately, I’ve been interested in a game called Go. It’s played with flat, round black-and-white pieces called stones on a 19x19 board. It’s shown on media being played by geniuses, which is probably why I like it. Ha ha.

Anyway, back to football. I understand that something called the ‘transfer season’ is going on. This is where players are traded between clubs before the start of the season. After what happened to me last week, I’m wondering whether this shouldn’t happen in other places, too.

If you’re not in the know, a work colleague of mine approached me on behalf of another colleague, who thought the reason I can’t maintain a relationship with a woman is because I’m gay. Now, full disclosure, I don’t care much how people identify sexually. I’ve watched indifferently as they have added letters to the LGBTQ community, and my view is, to each his own. Hey, in Spain, men dressed as devils jump over newborn babies laid on mattresses in the street to cleanse them of original sin. You don’t see me complaining.

However, it does seem like some people change their sexual preferences on a whim. Some even confess it on social media, swapping abusive boyfriends for hopefully more caring girlfriends.

Now, transfer season has me wondering, should it be the norm? As a medical professional, I’m inclined to think of sexual assignment as an innate matter stamped in our genes. But we used to tell people to drink a minimum eight glasses of water every day, and now we know it’s not necessary.

Then again, my scientific brain is open to suggestions. When I asked my colleague why he thinks I might want to try playing for the other side, he said I bear some known traits. That I’m always neat, I care about things like colour coordination, and that although I’m not flamboyant in mannerism, I do tend to gesture with my hands a lot when speaking. Well, frankly, I didn’t know this about myself. And maybe there’s more out there that I don’t know.

My usual metre is my friend Shirley, the only woman who likes me but won’t date me.

“What do you think?” I asked her over emergency coffee the other day.

She set down her cup, sat back and scrutinised my face. “Let me get this straight. Someone tells you he thinks you’re gay and you’re considering the possibility?”

I shrugged. “I mean, why not? Maybe it’s the reason I don’t want to get married or have kids. Church folks have called it ungodly or going against nature.”

After a few seconds, she burst out laughing.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“You, silly. That’s the worst ruse so far to get me to have coffee with you.” She leaned closer and dropped her voice to barely a whisper. “I know what we should do.”

“We?”

“Yes, you and I. You’ve wanted to sleep with me since the first day we met, right?”

“Yep. A fantastic experience you’ve denied yourself, I might add.”

She waved that off. “That remains to be seen, but not for long. How about tonight.”

“You and me? Tonight?”

“Why not? If you don’t like it, then we can conclude you are indeed on the rainbow spectrum.”

My heart beat like mad. “Okay. You’re on.”

She stood up, then let out another howl.

“What now?” I asked.

“There’s your answer. You’re no more gay as I am the Queen of England.”