I met my brother for the first time in a year at a pub in St Albans, where he, my Dad and Kirstie gathered after a review session with the various health professionals who are responsible for taking care of my mother. The National Health Service comes in for a lot of criticism, but, at its best, it's unrivaled. The meeting had involved a doctor, two consultants, several nurses, a social worker, and an extended housing specialist, all of whom were devoted to the task of helping my family decide the best course of action for residential care for my Mom. It's finally been decided that there is no alternative to permanent nursing care for her, so the question is which nursing home to place her in.

It was a sad occasion on which to be meeting, but everyone put on a good front. At the pub, my Dad was surprisingly cheerful. I didn't spend much time with my brother Neil, but he looked well. It was just unusual to see him so involved in the affairs of the family. Not having seen him in a year, it felt natural to ask him how his boyfriend Simon was doing. But of course I couldn't ask him that in front of Dad. He does, I think, probably realize Neil is gay, but he's just not comfortable with gay subject matter of any form.

In the afternoon, I took the train towards London to meet up with Neil in West Hampstead, where he lives with Simon. We took a long, long walk over Hampstead Heath, chatting more intimately than ever before, really. My brother has been through a lot in the last year. Not only my Mom's illness, but also an extraordinarily difficult event in his own life that I don't feel I can talk freely about, and, as we walked and talked, I began to wonder if maybe he really has changed after all, like my sisters say.

View of London from Parliament Hill, on Hampstead Heath

My brother Neil

In the evening, we went out for a nice meal at a Singaporean restaurant with Simon, and I found myself a little jealous of Neil, and simultaneously a little ashamed and embarrassed about my own life. Old feelings these are, going way back to childhood, when I used to feel my own integrity threatened by what I perceived as his restless masculinity. That all took place a long time before I knew he was a big poofter, like me. But now I felt jealous of his settled, comfortable, connected home life with Simon; his big, rumpled flat with a huge wine-rack and rusty old candleabra. I thought of my single life at home; my neat studio where I sometimes make dinner out of pre-cooked chicken pieces from Safeway, grapes and cheddar cheese.

Neil kissed me goodnight as I retired to his spare bedroom, a moment that left me a little troubled. As always when I see Neil, there are massive internal conflicts between liking him, and keeping myself coiled up inside. Lots of material for my therapist back home.