My parents had a room, in the house I grew up in. A room that wasn’t a room. It was almost a porch. Not quite a lobby. It was in between the kitchen, and the dining room, and the garden. Mostly the walls were filled with windows, and there were two glass doors.

The sort-of-room served several purposes over the years. For a while it was a sort of greenhouse. It was filled with plants, and the plants grew like mad. Then a couple of birds thought the plants they could see growing behind the glass door weren’t behind a glass door at all, and they flew straight into the glass door. The birds died, and the plants were removed.

After that, the sort-of-room became home to the goldfish. The goldfish didn’t really need all that room. It was in a pretty small bowl. It was happy in the bowl. So, the sort-of-room became a miniature antiques showroom. Things my parents had bought at auction without identifying either need or space in any of the actual rooms in the house, ended up in the sort-of-room instead. The sort-of-room filled up pretty quickly.

Luckily, one of the antiques was a massive cupboard. So the sort-of-room was full, but the cupboard was empty. We started to explore uses for the cupboard. The uses varied, but generally, at least two pairs of roller-skates, a garden hose, and several of those cardboard trays that punnets of fruit come in, could be found there. No one could say that wasn’t a useful cupboard.

We called the sort-of-room the ‘inside outside’.

So now I’ve got an inside outside of my own. Not an actual one, obviously, but the principle’s the same. Not quite in, not quite out. Metaphorically, I’ve stepped out of the kitchen, but I’m not in the garden yet.

I didn’t have an inside outside a few years ago. I’ve basically built a random sort of room as an imaginary extension to a metaphorical house.

A few years ago, I’d have met someone new – at work, say – and decided on the right time to tell them I was gay. Usually as soon as possible, before they embarrassed themselves by asking after my husband or something. Out of the kitchen and straight into the garden. Job done. Now though, I step out of the kitchen, and I’m surprised to find myself in the inside outside. Through the gay door, but still the cancer door to go.

Obviously not everyone needs to know everything that’s ever happened to me, but at some point a new manager will need to know why I have a surprising number of hospital appointments, and why someone apparently bouncing around in such good health has a range of unusual recommendations in an occupational health report. I sort of might need a bit of special treatment, but I don’t want to need it. Or to give anyone the impression that I might.

So. I’ve got a new manager at work. And within 5 minutes of meeting, I’d stepped decisively out of the kitchen. But I’m not quite so confident about the next step. I haven’t quite made it to the garden. In fact, I think I’ll hang about in the inside outside for a while longer. Worst case scenario, I can whizz about on some roller-skates for a bit.