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 daily dispatch from my hospital bed, which I dictate to my family who then send it out to you.
My rambling dispatches from my hospital bed 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
Dear Hanif, from someone who had enjoyed your work for years, this is a wonderful gift. I will be tuned in and sending you and your family all of the good vibes that my wizened little heart can muster.
Dear Hanif,
Your grace, humour and humility throughout this living nightmare has been a huge source of comfort and inspiration to me. I lost my son a few weeks ago, and your wonderful words are one of the few things that have kept me going through this shitty time of grief. A heartfelt thank you. Please keep going. You have convinced me that tragedy and renewal go hand in hand.