The Lovely Life of Arnold Age 7 I'm precocious. But I'll grow out of it. That's what Mom says. I'm gay too. Pop tells me that. I'll always be gay. It's a blessing, Pop says. I'm seven.

'He's my boy Arnold,' Pop says, to strangers he meets on the street. 'He's seven. He's gay.' 'That's nice,' they say. 'Will you send him to a special school?' 'No. We want him to mix with others.' 'Lucky them. I bet he's expensive though.

All those refined tastes.' 'We can afford him,' Pop says. 'Do without the rubbish, and you can always afford a treasure.' I'm very beautiful. Pop says I'm pretty. Mom says I'm handsome. They put them together and say I'm pretty handsome. I've got dark hair.

Black, Pop says. Black as a priest's gown. Dark as a den of thieves, Mom says, and giggles. She wants me to lead a racy life. My eyes are blue. Like the sky reflected in an angel's wings. My complexion is fair. Like the first blush of dawn over snow.

My body fits me to perfection. I'm funny, they say. Not odd. Just funny because I make them laugh. I see things in a different way, and say so clearly. It's because of my sexuality, they say. It gives me a fresh slant on life. I'm their only child, so it's perfect that I'm gay.

A little bit of her, a little bit of him. 'The best shape in life is round,' I say. 'Like a wheel and a coin and a ripple and a sun and a moon.' They laugh, and Pop picks me up into the sky. 'You're wrong. You're not round. You're long. You're best.

You're our son and our moon. Open your mouth.' I open it wide and round, like the dark side of the moon. Mom pops a pink fondant inside. The taste explodes in my mouth to thrill me. 'Pink is the best colour in the world,' I say, when I can speak again. They laugh. Mom kisses one cheek, Pop the other.

'That's our boy,' they say.