My older brother and I only stopped hating each other recently. We never had anything in common. He was painfully shy and found his expression in lashing out at people. I was quite shy myself, but I was all right on stage, being a performer. My brother, however, wasn't forthcoming at all. He was a fierce defender of me in the playground, but at home he would hit me. We have become closer over the years.

My dad was quite a forbidding figure. I realise now that that was mainly because he worked so hard. He wasn't unkind, but he was a presence. When our mum said "Wait till your father gets home", it definitely worked. Now I'm older I can understand that children need some fear. Otherwise they behave abominably. They need parameters.

Dad's entire family were miners. He was the first not to go down the mines – he was a mining engineer, working above ground. He worked since he was 14 and was always incredibly hardworking. I was a lazy child and I didn't admire that quality then, but I do now. I used to think he was intolerant and rather bigoted, which he was, but in a very old Labour, north-eastern kind of way. He hated the Tories with a passion, but some of his views were also quite unreconstructed.

I dreaded coming out to my dad, but it was taken out of my hands by my mum. I told her I was gay and was ready to tell my dad, but she said: "Don't, you'll kill him." So, I put it off for a bit, then about two weeks later she called me up and said mysteriously: "We've had snow! Oh, look, it's only dad just come in the room," which I took to mean she had told him. A year later, I realised that they had dealt with it by not dealing with it at all. I had to go through it all again and confront them about my sexuality. There's a lesson there, in terms of not putting things off.

I had a girlfriend before I ever had a boyfriend, but it was just a phase. I think a lot of people who say they are bisexual aren't. I loved her dearly and we had a very nice time, but on the Kinsey scale, I would say I was always predominantly gay.

I grew up with low self-esteem. I didn't think I was very pretty. I had glasses, red hair and was generally quite a spod. I was a Doctor Who fan and I loved fossils and astronomy. So when I started going out with boys, I was too keen, doing too much of the chasing.

I was always ready for a serious relationship. I remember 12 years ago going on holiday, sitting in the airport on my own, thinking: "This is meaningless without someone to share it with."

I met Ian online. He spelled everything so well – I said to myself: "This is the man for me." We spent most of our first chat talking grammar. I knew I wanted to see him again. He said coolly: "I like to keep my cards close to my chest." But he rang me the next day.

I admire Ian's patience. I get very cross. I've learned to talk things through with Ian before I do anything I'll regret. We row very rarely. We've weathered several storms but it's not about huge drama any more. I think we all have an imaginary world where we envisage ourselves like Burton and Taylor, Verlaine and Rimbaud – extraordinary highs, devastating lows.

We got married in Middle Temple, in the City of London, underneath a portrait of Edward Carson QC, the man who prosecuted Oscar Wilde. The whole day was replete with irony.

Black Butterfly by Mark Gatiss is published by Simon & Schuster. The First Men in the Moon is repeated on BBC4 today and tomorrow.