Spotting a gay man in the age of civil partnerships

The train's just trundled out of the city. The man sitting to my right is around 40 and lightly tanned with expensively coiffed sandy hair, his face pulled taught by a slightly superior arch to the eyebrows. His hooded eyes scan the pages of an inoffensive newspaper. His suit is well cut, his briefcase looks pricey, his shoes are curiously unbuffed.

Under normal circumstances, he would be off my amateurish gaydar - he could be a snobby, sophis power-gay (the kind I used to hate working for when I was in PR - utterly immune to and disdainful towards the eyelash-fluttering that got me out of trouble with my other clients). Or he could be a snobby, sophis straight city twat. It wouldn't usually cross my mind.

But this gentleman was sporting on the third finger of his left hand a most staggering hunk of bling. An absurd, bulging thing that anchored his arm to the seat, with strips of what appeared to be platinum wrapped around the outside and a diamond the size of a child's front tooth hammered into the centre. It was MAHUSSIVE. I may be wrong, but if he wasn't in the gays then I'm Cheryl Baker.