Am I the only ancient dyke in town who yearns for those far-off treacherous shores of love? I look with sorrow at the audience at the k.d. lang concert and pine for the Belle Époque. It’s not that I mind my sisters looking like men: far from it. It’s the sort of men they emulate. Boring ones who wash their cars on Saturdays, get a number four from the barber on the corner, and buy their wives Valentine gifts from the Argos catalogue.