Lovell - Paulyanna International Rent-boy

by Paul Douglas Lovell

Arranging a prenuptial agreement to protect wealth from gold-digging partners was all the rage around the millennium. Before that it was generally overly anxious parents judging, vetting and being very vocal in order to safeguard the interests of their offspring.

Some of you may have been the victim of this judgmental process, and perhaps for most of your life. I know I have, and guess what? Something tells me it may flare up again. After all, Ive been accepted into Swiss society not exactly under false pretences, as I only tell the truth, but I do tend to omit stuff.

Perhaps I fitted in easily because all my friends are kind-hearted and intelligent, or maybe because the Swiss, being very private people, think it odd to divulge personal trivialities to anyone other than their closest associates, so I didnt bother. Although I do have one girlfriend with whom I chat, I was introduced to her as Paul from London who worked in music television. Much better than my West End debut as that fuckin rent-boy from the Black Country, dont you think? This gave me a chance to win her and her compatriots over with my charm.

So I avoided all those pride and prejudice sidelong glances and hushed comments. In my opinion, acknowledging one to be even slightly more equal in turn highlights the other as inferior and therefore unfairly balances the union of two. Being hit with a list of demands or ultimatums can quickly shatter any romance and plant seeds for future conflict. How would you react if given list of twenty demands that needed to be agreed upon before advancing further?

And how do you respond to a simple yet fundamental statement? One like, "I want to know you are not acting on a whim and your love is true?

I grew up in the seventies and eighties, an impostor in my own life. Outwardly I appeared to be a normal working-class ruffian, scratching and biting along with the best of them. Inwardly I yearned for wealth and to feel a softer side of life.

Raised by my Dad on state benefits, it was a fairly hard upbringing where going without was an expected fact. School trips, pocket money day, Easter and birthdays always passed by with great disappointment. The words Because you havent got a mom, always followed my moans of Oh, why? I was the youngest of five underprivileged children so it didnt take long to discover that all requests were met with this response and, more importantly, that Dads word was final.

Living below the poverty line meant our house lacked that homey feeling and was always cold. There was a bullet-sized hole in the dining room window. The glass pane, too big and expensive to replace, had been crudely held together by adhesive tape. Over time this had yellowed and no longer really stuck, so allowed the wind to whistle merry tunes through its opening. Closing the front door would make the whole thing rattle, threatening to shatter, year in, year out. It made me anxious because I knew that when it did, we would probably board it up, just like the back door and the window in the hallway. Which, as far as I knew, had always been broken.

In the coldest winters, ice would gather on the inside of the windowpanes and cold water pipes would often rupture. Water would seep through a hole in the ceiling, the result of a previous leak, and once again drench the kitchen. It happened so often that the slightest mention of freezing temperatures had us rushing upstairs to scrub out the bath-tub so it could be filled up with fresh water. Otherwise when the supply got cut off due to a burst, wed either have to collect some white snow from the garden or visit a neighbour with an empty bucket.

We placed glass screw-top bottles filled with boiling water in old socks and took them to bed with us. For extra blankets we used itchy overcoats and thick curtains with metal attachments that scratched at our chins. Sheets of newspapers were also inserted between the covers. The whole thing weighed so much that turning over was nigh on impossible. We were not exactly the snuggest of bugs. It was sheer claustrophobic terror for me to awake with my head at the bottom of the bed. As if being held under water, my blind-panic kicking and muffled bawling would alert my brother to pull me free.

On some occasions after a long, snowy trudge from school, we would be greeted home to the piping-hot aroma of tinned soup simmering on the stove. As feelings of cosy homeliness were rare in a house with no carpet, I always cherished those warm welcomes and perceived them as confirmation of my dads love.

The dark winter evenings brought with it Christmas, a magical time of year full of anticipation. I knew for sure presents and sweets were heading my way. Despite taking the best part of a year to pay for it, my dad usually purchased a large food hamper out of a shopping catalogue. Sometimes we went knocking on doors in the well-to-do areas carol singing to earn some money. We would use it to buy each other gifts. However, I wasnt all that keen on Boxing Day. Even though I was often disappointed by Christmas due to my lofty expectations, the thought of waiting a whole year for it to come back around always seemed like a lifetime.

We may not have had many toys but what we did have was freedom and a lot of imagination. We played outside a great deal, but if I couldnt keep up I wasnt allowed to tag along. My older brothers would run off at full speed and I would attempt to stay on their heels. Then Id stamp my feet in a tantrum as I shouted Fuckin bastards! at their vanishing silhouettes. Id call on friends, most of whom werent supposed to play with our problem family. There had been a petition circulated in the cul-de-sac and the adjoining roads near our home to have us evicted from the street.