I would hold a gathering for your caregivers and family and close friends who have supported you this past year. Serve the two bottles wine in appreciation and gratitude. Cheers!
Money warps perspective, don't you think? Except for in extreme situations like yours., where it really shouldn't cause deprivations. That's why capitalism is irrational. Billions for one or a cold-water flat for another. I'm a senior citizen who, like you, forgot to become rich while I was young because I was an actor and a hippie. I wouldn't change any of that, but it would be nice not to have to work at age 75. I was discussing the subject with a friend recently, who was berating me for being "irresponsible" all my life. I was offended. I still am.
What a lovely and thoughtful gift. The fact it’s very expensive wine is secondary. It’s just another example of the randomness and imbalance in terms of how we are valued, I suppose. I’d probably have been halfway through the second bottle before Googling it and passing out…I hope you enjoy it, in whatever way you choose. X
To be honest, I'm not interested in the rich and their money or their lifestyle at all. I also find it unfair that some people would get very rich while others wouldn't, especially when they have similar talents or skills. I think you should sell those bottles of wine, Mr. Kureishi.
I guess it might have been more helpful for your friend to give you $2500 but I prefer to think he was only trying to show you how much he valued your friendship, no?
I am in awe of your strength and resilience, Mr. Kureishi. Easy to say, I know.
If you can, I wish you would drink the wine. Then tell us about it.
Near to where I grew up there was a small patch of woodland. It had once been part of a manor estate. The grand old house that stood there was abandoned during the war in 1941. The family who had occupied its many rooms for generations never returned and the building soon fell into disrepair. What was not pulled down by two different strains of ivy (one light in colour and one dark) that swamped the walls like a storm tide, was demolished two decades later by wrecking ball and bulldozer. In the 1700s, when the manor was built, it had been fashionable to set ivy guards around properties that would, if not cut back, gradually overwhelm the masonry and pull it apart. By the 1800s a number of mansions were allowed to go fallow in this way, with new houses eventually being raised up on the old foundations.
The land upon which the manor had stood remained derelict until the 1980s when it was turned into a housing estate of three and four-bedroom properties. The woodland somehow survived the development of the area. I believe there was a covenant in place that stipulated that a certain proportion of the land should remain in a natural condition.
At the centre of the wood there was a wallen pine. Any dendrologists who are reading this will no doubt express their disbelief that a tree that is native to the Canada and Alaska could flourish and grow to such an immense height and circumference in a relatively temperate English climate. This particular tree (perhaps the only example of its species in the UK) had been cultivated by someone who knew its requirements and who had settled it within an artificial dell that allowed cold air to gather above its roots, even during the summer. While the tree was part of the manor grounds its principle boughs had been pruned so as to form an upward spiral, like a winding staircase, that was easy to climb.
The grey squirrels who lived in the wood were very fond of the cones of the wallen pine and could often be seen squatting on their haunches, gnawing at them like they were corn on the cob. I once sampled one myself on a dare, in exchange for the flat dregs of a bottle of cherryade. It was like eating a mouthful of sugared bark. The squirrels would throw away a disc-shaped remnant of the cones that was apparently too hard even for their teeth. These would pile up like a tarnished dragon's hoard around the trunk.
Me and some of the other children from the area began harvesting the discs and using them as play money. We were probably around six or seven years old at the time. My mother, who was horrified that I was handling pieces of wood that had recently been gnawed by squirrels, made me wash any that I brought home with me. They bobbed among the iceberg soap suds in our stainless steel kitchen sink. This disinfecting bath was sufficient in my mother's mind to eliminate the possibility of me contracting rabies.
During my second year at junior school our relationship with the wallen pine discs changed. We began to use them as a proper currency, to buy and sell toys and sweets from each other. There were a limited number of coins in circulation. I never liked it when I was the one holding the lion's share and people would either be over-friendly or aloof in my presence. I would spend the money quickly on things I didn't want, just so my life and my friendships could return to normal.
On the fringes of our social circle there was a boy named Martin Hudson. He read at an advanced level and was isolated from us by his intelligence. He always had a runny nose and would leave glassy trails of snot dewing the woollen sleeves of his grey duffle coat. I visited him at his home once – an old house that smelled of boiled cabbage and was filled with antiques. He lived there with his mother and his grandfather. He showed me a pair of supermarket carrier bags that were filled almost to the point of bursting with wallen pine discs. He kept them in the bottom of his wardrobe. I wonder now if he wanted to participate in our games but didn't know how to join in or lacked the confidence to do so. Maybe he feared that we would take advantage of him and conspire to divest him of his wealth, which is actually what happened.
Christophr Watts' dad lost his job when the Ford factory closed. I remember a meeting with my friends where we ardently discussed the number of wooden coins we would each donate to Christopher so that his family wouldn't lose their home. I betrayed Martin's confidence by revealing to the group his hidden wealth. Afterwards he became the subject of constant pressure to surrender his fortune to Christopher so he could buy his house before it was repossessed by the bank. This took the form of meanness from the girls and physical pushing and prodding from the boys.
“It's not real money,” he said. I remember his voice rising to an insistent whine. Somehow Phillip Wragg's claim that “Christopher might actually go to prison” had more credibility. In hindsight I think we were revelling in the opportunity to hurt someone because in our eyes they were wrong and therefore deserved to be hurt. We were the goodies and Martin was the baddy.
Christopher's family lost their home and moved away. I only saw him a couple of times after that. Martin was ostracised by the group. He had a lonely childhood. He passed his eleven plus exam and was sent to a school for gifted children. I never saw him again or know what happened to him. A couple of weeks after Christopher and his family moved across town, to a flat above a petrol station, I visited the wallen pine alone. Two enormous piles of wooden coins had been deposited at the foot of the trunk. I left them where they were.
So profound. You’re as sharp as ever, with a different perspective. Your body may have humbled you, but your mind will not be tamed!! I have so much admiration for you.. thank you dear man.
What a thoughtful piece, and what a poignant ending. My thought: drink one bottle with Isabella and the boys and give the other to your friend on the pension. Unless you need the money…oh lord yes, the root of all evil - look what’s happening in the world - but necessary, as you are finding out. My warmest wishes to you, Hanif. As someone else remarked, the mood in your posts has become lighter (even when discussing serious topics, as you did today), more humour-laced, more like the Hanif of old. May your mood and physical state continue to improve.
This is the funniest piece so far (to me - so it might depend on my mood to-date let’s say fairly level right now). Please drink the wine however best you can and may I suggest a small family gathering plus dog to celebrate your good fortune (as opposed to the ghastly year behind you) in still being here still being so devilishly funny and having such a diverse bunch of friends. Money is such a bloody pest people kill themselves over it - you have I suspect about enough to keep going at home and in any case would ask for help if you hadn’t - it does get in the way relationship wise - my mum once said to me Maddy I don’t know what you spend your money on so I didn’t speak to her for about a year or visit during which time Dad had cancer (we were writing) supposedly got over it then died out of the blue but you see what I mean. I was in terrible debt trying to keep me daughter grandson going from a dead end job (we must laugh here it was helping people back into work who preferred not to) so I took immediate umbrage at mum. It really is a sod. (Money). But not a sod when you’ve got it specially if inherited wealth. I’m of the mind Hanif that we have all we need but that philosophical outlook might change if British Gas puts my DD up. Back to you - honestly your writing for my money (I’m the one that contributes nothing) is just getting funnier. Hoping this is down to you being more settled more comfort zoned - in charge kind of thing. Yes drink it!! Tonight it is at long last the final of The Masked Singer and the wonder of who they are is revealed. They are always aside from Dionne Warwick unknown to me, The panel have to look gobsmacked and Joel Dommett the presenter (like him lots why I watch it) has to create excitement. Just remembering you brought sex into your writing - how it was so important to get some - do you think that’s where this country took a nose dive. Replacing the sex drive with the money drive - I’m just an old hippy really no wonder I’m pink lint. From the middle of nowhere village I bid you a very happy evening and a good week ahead. Love Maddi xxxx
Hanif...your writing has always made so much sense to me..a South American teacher and tireless reading activist . You make me wonder how far Money's arms can stretch too. Reason for intestine family wars, life and death meaning to so many, Almighty Insatiable Carrot. Yet, all those attributes shift the moment life hits us. The Wheel turns invariably and once again we are left agape. And while mouth agape, cheers to you and that enviable elixir!
I was just wondering if the billionaire might read this . A real friend ( in my view) just says look , I have the money , you need it now so let me pay for your physio from now on / building costs /whatever . No selling of gifts needed then , practical . Lovely to read more happiness in your writing now.
It'll be just like that episode of Black Books where Bernard and Manny are house-sitting for a rich friend and drink the expensive wine instead of the cheap wine. A little counter appears in the corner of the screen with the pounds going down and down every time they slosh and skull.
I would hold a gathering for your caregivers and family and close friends who have supported you this past year. Serve the two bottles wine in appreciation and gratitude. Cheers!
Money warps perspective, don't you think? Except for in extreme situations like yours., where it really shouldn't cause deprivations. That's why capitalism is irrational. Billions for one or a cold-water flat for another. I'm a senior citizen who, like you, forgot to become rich while I was young because I was an actor and a hippie. I wouldn't change any of that, but it would be nice not to have to work at age 75. I was discussing the subject with a friend recently, who was berating me for being "irresponsible" all my life. I was offended. I still am.
One of your best Hanif. Not only have you recovered your voice, it seems you have a mission.
What a lovely and thoughtful gift. The fact it’s very expensive wine is secondary. It’s just another example of the randomness and imbalance in terms of how we are valued, I suppose. I’d probably have been halfway through the second bottle before Googling it and passing out…I hope you enjoy it, in whatever way you choose. X
To be honest, I'm not interested in the rich and their money or their lifestyle at all. I also find it unfair that some people would get very rich while others wouldn't, especially when they have similar talents or skills. I think you should sell those bottles of wine, Mr. Kureishi.
“Envy is central to our culture”. Exactly, and that is what’s so sickening about it.
I guess it might have been more helpful for your friend to give you $2500 but I prefer to think he was only trying to show you how much he valued your friendship, no?
I am in awe of your strength and resilience, Mr. Kureishi. Easy to say, I know.
If you can, I wish you would drink the wine. Then tell us about it.
Drink one bottle and save the other? Try a blind taste test with Chateau Tesco?
Can't get over the price of the wine. Don't mean to be rude but what on earth was that person thinking of?
Near to where I grew up there was a small patch of woodland. It had once been part of a manor estate. The grand old house that stood there was abandoned during the war in 1941. The family who had occupied its many rooms for generations never returned and the building soon fell into disrepair. What was not pulled down by two different strains of ivy (one light in colour and one dark) that swamped the walls like a storm tide, was demolished two decades later by wrecking ball and bulldozer. In the 1700s, when the manor was built, it had been fashionable to set ivy guards around properties that would, if not cut back, gradually overwhelm the masonry and pull it apart. By the 1800s a number of mansions were allowed to go fallow in this way, with new houses eventually being raised up on the old foundations.
The land upon which the manor had stood remained derelict until the 1980s when it was turned into a housing estate of three and four-bedroom properties. The woodland somehow survived the development of the area. I believe there was a covenant in place that stipulated that a certain proportion of the land should remain in a natural condition.
At the centre of the wood there was a wallen pine. Any dendrologists who are reading this will no doubt express their disbelief that a tree that is native to the Canada and Alaska could flourish and grow to such an immense height and circumference in a relatively temperate English climate. This particular tree (perhaps the only example of its species in the UK) had been cultivated by someone who knew its requirements and who had settled it within an artificial dell that allowed cold air to gather above its roots, even during the summer. While the tree was part of the manor grounds its principle boughs had been pruned so as to form an upward spiral, like a winding staircase, that was easy to climb.
The grey squirrels who lived in the wood were very fond of the cones of the wallen pine and could often be seen squatting on their haunches, gnawing at them like they were corn on the cob. I once sampled one myself on a dare, in exchange for the flat dregs of a bottle of cherryade. It was like eating a mouthful of sugared bark. The squirrels would throw away a disc-shaped remnant of the cones that was apparently too hard even for their teeth. These would pile up like a tarnished dragon's hoard around the trunk.
Me and some of the other children from the area began harvesting the discs and using them as play money. We were probably around six or seven years old at the time. My mother, who was horrified that I was handling pieces of wood that had recently been gnawed by squirrels, made me wash any that I brought home with me. They bobbed among the iceberg soap suds in our stainless steel kitchen sink. This disinfecting bath was sufficient in my mother's mind to eliminate the possibility of me contracting rabies.
During my second year at junior school our relationship with the wallen pine discs changed. We began to use them as a proper currency, to buy and sell toys and sweets from each other. There were a limited number of coins in circulation. I never liked it when I was the one holding the lion's share and people would either be over-friendly or aloof in my presence. I would spend the money quickly on things I didn't want, just so my life and my friendships could return to normal.
On the fringes of our social circle there was a boy named Martin Hudson. He read at an advanced level and was isolated from us by his intelligence. He always had a runny nose and would leave glassy trails of snot dewing the woollen sleeves of his grey duffle coat. I visited him at his home once – an old house that smelled of boiled cabbage and was filled with antiques. He lived there with his mother and his grandfather. He showed me a pair of supermarket carrier bags that were filled almost to the point of bursting with wallen pine discs. He kept them in the bottom of his wardrobe. I wonder now if he wanted to participate in our games but didn't know how to join in or lacked the confidence to do so. Maybe he feared that we would take advantage of him and conspire to divest him of his wealth, which is actually what happened.
Christophr Watts' dad lost his job when the Ford factory closed. I remember a meeting with my friends where we ardently discussed the number of wooden coins we would each donate to Christopher so that his family wouldn't lose their home. I betrayed Martin's confidence by revealing to the group his hidden wealth. Afterwards he became the subject of constant pressure to surrender his fortune to Christopher so he could buy his house before it was repossessed by the bank. This took the form of meanness from the girls and physical pushing and prodding from the boys.
“It's not real money,” he said. I remember his voice rising to an insistent whine. Somehow Phillip Wragg's claim that “Christopher might actually go to prison” had more credibility. In hindsight I think we were revelling in the opportunity to hurt someone because in our eyes they were wrong and therefore deserved to be hurt. We were the goodies and Martin was the baddy.
Christopher's family lost their home and moved away. I only saw him a couple of times after that. Martin was ostracised by the group. He had a lonely childhood. He passed his eleven plus exam and was sent to a school for gifted children. I never saw him again or know what happened to him. A couple of weeks after Christopher and his family moved across town, to a flat above a petrol station, I visited the wallen pine alone. Two enormous piles of wooden coins had been deposited at the foot of the trunk. I left them where they were.
So profound. You’re as sharp as ever, with a different perspective. Your body may have humbled you, but your mind will not be tamed!! I have so much admiration for you.. thank you dear man.
What a thoughtful piece, and what a poignant ending. My thought: drink one bottle with Isabella and the boys and give the other to your friend on the pension. Unless you need the money…oh lord yes, the root of all evil - look what’s happening in the world - but necessary, as you are finding out. My warmest wishes to you, Hanif. As someone else remarked, the mood in your posts has become lighter (even when discussing serious topics, as you did today), more humour-laced, more like the Hanif of old. May your mood and physical state continue to improve.
This is the funniest piece so far (to me - so it might depend on my mood to-date let’s say fairly level right now). Please drink the wine however best you can and may I suggest a small family gathering plus dog to celebrate your good fortune (as opposed to the ghastly year behind you) in still being here still being so devilishly funny and having such a diverse bunch of friends. Money is such a bloody pest people kill themselves over it - you have I suspect about enough to keep going at home and in any case would ask for help if you hadn’t - it does get in the way relationship wise - my mum once said to me Maddy I don’t know what you spend your money on so I didn’t speak to her for about a year or visit during which time Dad had cancer (we were writing) supposedly got over it then died out of the blue but you see what I mean. I was in terrible debt trying to keep me daughter grandson going from a dead end job (we must laugh here it was helping people back into work who preferred not to) so I took immediate umbrage at mum. It really is a sod. (Money). But not a sod when you’ve got it specially if inherited wealth. I’m of the mind Hanif that we have all we need but that philosophical outlook might change if British Gas puts my DD up. Back to you - honestly your writing for my money (I’m the one that contributes nothing) is just getting funnier. Hoping this is down to you being more settled more comfort zoned - in charge kind of thing. Yes drink it!! Tonight it is at long last the final of The Masked Singer and the wonder of who they are is revealed. They are always aside from Dionne Warwick unknown to me, The panel have to look gobsmacked and Joel Dommett the presenter (like him lots why I watch it) has to create excitement. Just remembering you brought sex into your writing - how it was so important to get some - do you think that’s where this country took a nose dive. Replacing the sex drive with the money drive - I’m just an old hippy really no wonder I’m pink lint. From the middle of nowhere village I bid you a very happy evening and a good week ahead. Love Maddi xxxx
Hanif...your writing has always made so much sense to me..a South American teacher and tireless reading activist . You make me wonder how far Money's arms can stretch too. Reason for intestine family wars, life and death meaning to so many, Almighty Insatiable Carrot. Yet, all those attributes shift the moment life hits us. The Wheel turns invariably and once again we are left agape. And while mouth agape, cheers to you and that enviable elixir!
I was just wondering if the billionaire might read this . A real friend ( in my view) just says look , I have the money , you need it now so let me pay for your physio from now on / building costs /whatever . No selling of gifts needed then , practical . Lovely to read more happiness in your writing now.
It'll be just like that episode of Black Books where Bernard and Manny are house-sitting for a rich friend and drink the expensive wine instead of the cheap wine. A little counter appears in the corner of the screen with the pounds going down and down every time they slosh and skull.