Dear Readers,
On Boxing Day 2022, in Rome, after taking a comfortable walk to the Piazza del Popolo, followed by a stroll through the Villa Borghese, and then back to the apartment, I had a fall.
I woke up a few minutes later in a pool of blood, my neck in a grotesquely twisted position, my wife on her knees beside me. I believed I was dying. I believed I had three breaths left.
Now, without the use of my hands, or any other limbs, which is a considerable inconvenience, I write a weekly dispatch from my hospital bed, which I dictate to my family who then send it out to you.
My rambling dispatches will arrive directly to your inbox, daily, if I’m up to it.
I will be writing about writing as well as my new immobilised predicament. I will be writing about sex and drugs and music, TV shows and writers I admire, and my memories, among other important matters.
More importantly, I want to hear from you, for I read all of your comments and I am moved by them.
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Your loving no-hands man,
Hanif
