How to be poor

down upon people “in trade”, — people who
bought things cheap and sold them at a higher price. Nor were people without a
university degree quite acceptable. They should be treated with courtesy (condescending
courtesy, of course) but could never become friends. My parents’ best friends
were, as it happened, a timber-merchant and his wife — charming and highly
cultured people, but undoubtedly “in trade”, and without degrees — but this, I
suppose, was simply the exception to confirm the rule. People “in trade” were
intrinsically funny — but what was supposed to be funny about them I can no
longer tell. On a conscious level I reject all this rubbish from beginning to
end; but, at the bottom of my heart, I know that I have preserved a great deal
of these attitudes and that I still think business people are intrinsically
funny. To be a humorous writer is a serious occupation; to sell plastic mugs is
ridiculous.
    In the mid-sixties I travelled to Jamaica to write a book on that country. As I am a tennis-maniac, I was taken to the Kingston tennis club, played a few doubles and afterwards joined the other players for a
drink. They were all in trade, ambitious junior executives and so on. One
turned to me, whisky-glass in hand, and said: “I am in boilers.”
    For a moment I was taken aback but
then I saw what he meant. He said again: “I am in boilers. What are you in?” I
forced myself not to give a facetious answer and replied politely: “I am a
writer.”
    He was puzzled. Obviously he had
never met a writer in his life, and he gave me the impression that he did not
quite grasp what I was talking about. He frowned and looked worried. Then his
eyes lit up and he asked me with a bright smile: “An under-writer?”
    I shook my head. “Alas, no. Just an
over-writer.”
     
     
    I was still a small boy when I heard
the expression: “He’s worth two million crowns.”
    “How do you know?” I asked in
astonishment.
    The man who had said it was amused by
my childish ignorance. “Because that’s how much money he has.”
    I was too small to understand fully,
but the phrase lingered on: “He’s worth two million crowns”. Gradually it
dawned on me that people who said things like that were not impressed by the
high social standing of a lawyer. They did not care whether he had a degree or
not. To such people a man is not what he is but what he has. He is “worth” as
much as the money in his pocket, and never mind how he got it.
     
     
    I am not sure whether I am a saint or
an oddity — although, of course, all saints are oddities as well. Perhaps I
cannot — or ought not — to claim the sanctity, but surely I must be at least a
little odd, in that things which millions of people dream about with longing
simply disgust me. I used to have a friend who was immensely proud of a desk so
enormous that he could hardly see across it, which stood on carpet so deep that
you could hardly wade through it. If I dreamt that I was sitting behind that
desk, surrounded by that carpet, the dream would turn into a nightmare and I
would wake up in a cold sweat (I think — I never have nightmares).
    Another nightmare is the idea of
being driven around by a chauffeur who would jump out to open the door for me.
I regard a Rolls Royce as a particularly vulgar and ostentatious car. If I
became a multimillionaire tomorrow — admittedly an unlikely supposition — even
then I could not sink so low as to drive around in a Rolls.
    I hate all servants, not as
individuals but as a class. No man should “serve” another. Certainly, a very
busy man should not clean his own shoes or cook his own meals. These tasks can
be undertaken by other people as jobs, but without any cap-touching, bowing or
other disgusting servility. Such servility, thank God, is slowly disappearing.
It is surviving only in Communist countries.
    I could never bear the idea of being
anybody’s boss. I never had a secretary in my life. Even when I needed one
badly, I sent all my manuscripts to be typed by agencies and paid the bills
with a grin.

    It has happened more than once that I
was sent a first-class air ticket by some newspaper, magazine or other
organisation. More often than not I have talked my way into economy class and
regarded it as a special favour when allowed to move down. I prefer my fellow
passengers in economy-class and just cannot accept myself as a “first-class
passenger”. Imagine making a point of carrying one of those