SUNNY MONDAY: LOOKING UP, LOOKING DOWN

And off we went—Mr and Mrs, husband and wife, she in her silk white wedding dress.

Loving Readers,

Thank you for reading The Kureishi Chronicles. As I continue to write via dictation with the help of my family, your support means everything.

Your contributions go towards my considerable care needs. If you enjoy my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber—it truly makes a difference.

Bums, druggies, down-and-outs—as well as the mad and the poor—are those most likely to acknowledge me as I scoot about the street. They almost always make eye contact or have a good word to say. Often, I hear, “God bless,” as they cross themselves at the sight of this poor cripple. Apparently, these are my people now: the lowest, most despised and neglected.

I have descended the social ladder. Recently, in a shopping centre with one of my sons, I became aware that I was in the way of a group of people. Rather than asking if I minded moving, I noticed that they didn’t acknowledge me at all, seeing me instead as an inanimate object, like a suitcase, that my son would have to shift.

The man who sells the Big Issue at the entrance to Tesco approaches and asks whether, like so many others, I am here to enjoy the air-conditioning. Why else, I wonder, would I even be in Tesco? Helpfully, he directs me towards the fridge freezers, where I find a gaggle of the infirm have gathered—and we loiter together, imbibing the cool vibe. Eventually, Isabella finds me, and I am dragged away.

The following week, I attend two publishing parties, one at Faber, the other at Penguin. It’s a struggle preparing for these events; my carer has to change me into my stylish, more uncomfortable clothes. The taxis, designed specifically for a wheelchair of my dimensions, cost a minimum of two hundred pounds. And it’s not as if I can arrive anonymously. As I roll in, I am aware that people turn to look at me, shielded by my protective family.

Writers, agents, publishers, and editors gather together. Most of them are white; all are standing up, looking down on me as I weave towards the bar. In this era of financialisation, it can feel like these people are the bulwark against philistinism, the injection of intellectualism into a thinning cultural stream. No better place than London in June, I think, as I am fed red wine and fishy d’oeuvres.