The first Pride I vividly remember was, I think, 1985. When I saw the beginnings of the gathering for the march I genuinely could not believe my eyes. Hundreds of queer folk, most dressed down, casual – jeans, vests, DMs, a uniform for all genders back then – but a few dressed up to the nines and beyond, costumed drag queens who normally came out after dark, boldly on the street in beautiful outrage, holding banners with slogans and awakened meanings: 'Lesbians and Gay Men Support the Miners', 'Gay Parents Have Rights', 'Out, Lesbian and Proud'. They were fighting words, then, as we had little equality and even less lived equality. I joined the line in my jeans (torn, of course, it was the '80s), faded salmon vest, cherry-red DMs and sweat top tied around my waist, and marched alongside comrades and would-be friends, but silently – I never uttered a sound. I was so overawed by the sheer number of people like me that I felt like I could or probably should burst into tears, of joy, of sadness, of potential. I was far from the only one.