Low life | 23 April 2011

The Spectator is a civilised paper. If they give you a weekly column, they are pleased for you to say what you like. The only editorial interference you can expect, apart from being hired, is the sack. They’d all rather die a slow and horrible death than exert the slightest influence over what you write.

Each week I email this column to the infinitely forgiving Arts editor, Liz Anderson, who has cheerfully fielded my usually late copy for ten years. The only time she interferes with the content — and always with tremendous reluctance and a profusion of stricken apologies — is when the lawyer has indicated that he is ‘uncomfortable’ about something and that we should change a name or delete a libellous word. It’s happened once, maybe twice.

But I had an immediate response from Liz about last week’s column — a litany of woe about my boy’s current financial, domestic and employment situation. It was depressing, she said.

I emailed back my apologies. I hadn’t meant it to be depressing, I said. I’d meant it to be ridiculous. There are plenty of good things about my boy’s life, I said, but I was sticking to a theme. Well, let’s hear about those good things, she emailed back. So here they are — the blessings.

We’ll start with the kids. There are four, two boys and two girls aged between 15 months and seven years — plus one in the oven. (My boy is father of Oscar, the youngest. The one in the oven is another boy.) Children are the treasure of the poor, isn’t that what they say? These ones are the most beautiful, fun, funny, cheery, faithful, exciting creatures imaginable. They keep us on our toes.