Prompted by a comment from a fellow Litopian, I delved into the far reaches of my record stacks to retrieve my old Communards LPs – the self-titled first one and the follow-up, Red.  I bought these with my pocket money soon after their releases in 1986 and 1987 and played them relentlessly.

I knew and loved these albums so well at the time not because they were my favourite group (that honour, back then, belonged to Eurythmics), but I didn’t have many records in those days, so the ones I had got plenty of play.  That I had almost forgotten these albums over the past thirty-five years, is a real shame.  That the songs are instantly familiar, and I find I still know all the lyrics by heart, is a marvellous rediscovery and something of a nostalgia trip.

As a cripplingly shy adolescent, confused by all things under the umbrella of sexuality, discovering music that was openly, defiantly and celebratorily gay was a personal adventure albeit not quite an awakening.  I’d loved the cross-dressing, gender non-conformity of David Bowie and Annie Lennox for longer, but I hadn’t been truly aware of the political side of gay culture until I heard The Communards.

I suspected myself of being a lesbian because I fancied Annie Lennox and Debbie Harry.  But I also thought I couldn’t be one because I was a Catholic.  I believed I was unlikely to ever have sex with anyone, and I had a notion that I might become a nun.

Ironic then, that in the week The Communards hit the top of the charts with Don’t Leave Me This Way, my first kiss happened with someone of the opposite sex.  I had turned twelve a month earlier, and I was at the thirteenth birthday party of a boy I was friends with.

I didn’t have many friends.  I found it hard to talk to girls my own age.  We had little in common, and I never knew what to say.  Girls were fickle and untrustworthy, and there was something about me that they didn’t like.  But I could talk to boys well enough, mainly about guitars and records or about fancying Debbie Harry.

As I considered the appeal of Sarah Jane Morris duetting her rich, deep tones with Jimmy Somerville’s high, pure voice, the birthday boy kissed me.  It was both thrilling and frightening.  He was almost a full year older than me.  He’d had a few girlfriends already, and he knew what he was doing.  With that kiss – no, let’s call it what it was: a snogging session that lasted longer than the four-and-a-half-minute number one single – I supposed I must like boys after all.  Because I did enjoy it.

But I completely freaked out and couldn’t face the poor lad in school on Monday.  We didn’t have another conversation until our final year of high school when we became good friends again.  We parted with a hug but no more kissing.  I went on to sixth form, and he left home to join the armed forces.

Teenage undertaker and ladies’ man, Mike Davies, a character from my first novel, is loosely based on the boy who planted that first kiss on me.   Mike is a nice guy, but he right wouldn’t be right for me.

My two Communards LPs have survived several changes of address over my lifetime but have remained unplayed since the late eighties.  That is until this morning when I cleaned them up and gave each of them a spin.

They are still in good condition with only minor surface marks which don’t affect their playability.  They are original UK first pressings on the London label.  They feel light and almost flimsy compared with heavy-weight records today and better-quality vintage vinyl from the seventies.  But they sound amazing.  The songs possess an enduring charm and positivity.  The emotional and political charge of For a Friend has lost none of its potency, and the energy of So Cold the Night feels as fresh as it did when I was a bewildered twelve-year-old.

I’ve spent a nostalgic morning singing along with Jimmy Somerville and Richard Coles, who I might have met had I accepted a place to study theology at King’s College instead of Durham University.  He studied there after The Communards split up.  He became a priest and, more recently, a novelist.  Maybe, if I had gone to King’s, I might have become a nun after all because I wouldn’t have met my future partner in Durham.  I probably wouldn’t have forgotten these records for so long, but then I wouldn’t have had the joy of rediscovery now.

Perhaps the paths we don’t choose, shape us as much as the ones we do.

With thanks to Rachael Burnett for inspiring this post.