that I was only fifteen years of age and that, if she was to have any real future in the world, it was unlikely that it would be with me. She was holding out for something better.
A mistake, as it turned out.
Chapter 3
January 1999
I live in a pleasant, south-facing apartment in Piccadilly, London. It is the basement flat of a four-storey house. The upper part of the property is lived in by a former minister in Mrs Thatcherâs cabinet whose attempts to secure a place in the Lords were given short shrift by her successor Mr Major â whom he despised for an incident at the Treasury some years before â and who has since wound up in the less prestigious but far more financially rewarding world of satellite broadcasting. As a major shareholder in the corporation which employs my upstairs neighbour, I take an interest in his career and was partly responsible for his being granted a thrice weekly political chat-show, which has recently been performing badly in the ratings, owing to the general perception of him as a has-been. Although I find the publicâs belief that anyone from the previous decade is a has-been completely absurd â surely my own longevity is testament to that â I suspect that the manâs career is coming to an end and I regret it, for he is a pleasant enough man with a taste for fine things, in which respect we are quite similar. He has been kind enough to invite me into his home on a number of occasions and I once dined off a rather fine piece of mid-nineteenth-century Hungarian dishware which I could have sworn I saw being made in Tatabanya while I was honeymooning with, if I remember correctly, Jane Dealey (1830-1866, m. 1863). Lovely girl. Fine features. Awful end. I could afford to live in the same luxury as my broadcasting friend but really canât be bothered. Right now, simplicity suits me. Iâve lived rough and Iâve lived well. Iâve slept on streets and collapsed drunk in palaces, a felonious vagrant or vomiting fool. Iâll most likely do both again. I took the apartment in 1992 and have been here ever since. Iâve made it quite the home. There is a small vestibule as you enter the front door, leading into a tiny hallway which opens out into the living room â sunken by a step â with a beautiful set of bay windows. Here, I keep my books, my recordings, my piano and my pipes. Scattered around the rest of the apartment is a bedroom, a bathroom and a small guest room which is only ever used by my many times removed nephew Tommy, who calls around to see me from time to time, whenever he needs cash.
Financially, I have been fortunate in life. I cant quite put my finger on how I made my money but thereâs an awful lot of it there. Most of it has grown without my realising it. To make the leap from the Dover boat to my position today there are certainly many jobs and positions which I have taken but I think I have been lucky in that I always kept my money as money, never stocks, never shares, never insurance policies or pensions. (Life insurance is a waste of money as far as I am concerned.) I had a friend â Denton Irving â who lost a bundle in the Wall Street crash in the early part of this century. One of those chaps who threw himself from his office window out of a sense of failure. Foolish chap; personalising something which the whole country went through. It was hardly his fault. Even as he jumped he could surely see half of New Yorkâs Old Money standing in their hotel windows, contemplating their own ends. Actually, he even failed at that. He misjudged the distance and ended up with a broken leg, a smashed arm and a couple of fractured ribs in the middle of the Avenue of the Americas, screaming in agony for about ten seconds before a tram came around the corner at speed and finished him off. He got what he wanted, I suppose.
I have always spent money too, believing that thereâs precious little point in having the
A mistake, as it turned out.
Chapter 3
January 1999
I live in a pleasant, south-facing apartment in Piccadilly, London. It is the basement flat of a four-storey house. The upper part of the property is lived in by a former minister in Mrs Thatcherâs cabinet whose attempts to secure a place in the Lords were given short shrift by her successor Mr Major â whom he despised for an incident at the Treasury some years before â and who has since wound up in the less prestigious but far more financially rewarding world of satellite broadcasting. As a major shareholder in the corporation which employs my upstairs neighbour, I take an interest in his career and was partly responsible for his being granted a thrice weekly political chat-show, which has recently been performing badly in the ratings, owing to the general perception of him as a has-been. Although I find the publicâs belief that anyone from the previous decade is a has-been completely absurd â surely my own longevity is testament to that â I suspect that the manâs career is coming to an end and I regret it, for he is a pleasant enough man with a taste for fine things, in which respect we are quite similar. He has been kind enough to invite me into his home on a number of occasions and I once dined off a rather fine piece of mid-nineteenth-century Hungarian dishware which I could have sworn I saw being made in Tatabanya while I was honeymooning with, if I remember correctly, Jane Dealey (1830-1866, m. 1863). Lovely girl. Fine features. Awful end. I could afford to live in the same luxury as my broadcasting friend but really canât be bothered. Right now, simplicity suits me. Iâve lived rough and Iâve lived well. Iâve slept on streets and collapsed drunk in palaces, a felonious vagrant or vomiting fool. Iâll most likely do both again. I took the apartment in 1992 and have been here ever since. Iâve made it quite the home. There is a small vestibule as you enter the front door, leading into a tiny hallway which opens out into the living room â sunken by a step â with a beautiful set of bay windows. Here, I keep my books, my recordings, my piano and my pipes. Scattered around the rest of the apartment is a bedroom, a bathroom and a small guest room which is only ever used by my many times removed nephew Tommy, who calls around to see me from time to time, whenever he needs cash.
Financially, I have been fortunate in life. I cant quite put my finger on how I made my money but thereâs an awful lot of it there. Most of it has grown without my realising it. To make the leap from the Dover boat to my position today there are certainly many jobs and positions which I have taken but I think I have been lucky in that I always kept my money as money, never stocks, never shares, never insurance policies or pensions. (Life insurance is a waste of money as far as I am concerned.) I had a friend â Denton Irving â who lost a bundle in the Wall Street crash in the early part of this century. One of those chaps who threw himself from his office window out of a sense of failure. Foolish chap; personalising something which the whole country went through. It was hardly his fault. Even as he jumped he could surely see half of New Yorkâs Old Money standing in their hotel windows, contemplating their own ends. Actually, he even failed at that. He misjudged the distance and ended up with a broken leg, a smashed arm and a couple of fractured ribs in the middle of the Avenue of the Americas, screaming in agony for about ten seconds before a tram came around the corner at speed and finished him off. He got what he wanted, I suppose.
I have always spent money too, believing that thereâs precious little point in having the