It seems that merchants are sufficiently mean that they give lorry drivers the maximum amount of goods to take and the minimum amount of petrol, gasoline in American, and time with which to deliver it. I suppose it’s cheaper, but if you put smaller loads on lorries and gave them longer to make the journey, there would be no accidents at all. I don’t suppose that’s ever going to happen though. Anyway, the current system works well for hitching a lift.

  Aside from lorry drivers however, when you’re a tramp no one notices you. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that while people notice you, they ignore you. By the time we reached Newcastle, we stopped and sat on the edge of a public fountain to eat a chocolate bar. Had we done that as real people and not in disguise as two tramps, people or the police would have come up and said harsh words to us. We would have been accused of loitering or of sitting where we should not have done. But because we were tramps, we were exempted. It was as if we were part of the scenery.

  People would look at us, but wouldn’t really see us because they would avert their eyes or turn their heads to not see you. It’s similar to what Americans do when they pass the homeless on the street here in New York City. Our clothes were not particularly tattered, but they were, of course, very worn and very dirty because we slept in them. We never changed our clothes and I have to say, I very much enjoyed the anonymity my new uniform gave me.

  Obviously, I remember being very, very tired. The walking sapped the energy from me. It meant I had no energy for talking. I can’t say my friend and I solved the world’s problems between us on the way up to Scotland. All we seemed to have energy for was walking. As we neared the end, putting one foot in front of the other was the only movement I could make. I couldn’t lift my leg up or move sideways and my ankles were the size of my knees.

  My weariness and grime made me at one with the other tramps. I met quite a few along the way and they recognized me as one of them. They didn’t stop and talk to you. They simply hailed you and then walked on. They would say, “Hi.” Then they would nod and you would reply and nod back.

  At Berwick, I came back by train. My friend went on another twenty miles or so to the farm where she was to work. Having walked with her over such a long distance I suppose I could have gone with her all the way to the farm. She insisted there was no need however and, had I gone further, I would have had to double back to get to the station and a train that would take me to London. Perhaps she thought her appearance was enough to deter would-be rapists over the last twenty miles now that she looked and smelled like a vagabond.

  Now that I think about it, I don’t think we met any soldiers on our trek. We came into contact with police occasionally who assumed we had failed to register for military service, but we had papers saying each of us were incapable of being graded. In my case for being homosexual. So, we got away with it and they let us be.

  When I returned to London I made a point of going to see people, still covered with dirt and not having shaved for ten days. My friends recoiled and screamed and ran away at the sight of me, which was great fun.

  That’s the only time I’ve ever been voluntarily out of London on foot. There were times I went to schools around London to pose and then, of course, I didn’t walk because I knew I would have to stand when I got there. Instead, I took a local train from stations like Victoria and Clapham Junction to go to places in Kent and the various other ‘home counties’. Otherwise, I always lived my life in England in London and as you know, Dr. Johnson41 said, “He who tires of London, tires of life.”

  I include the story of my time as a tramp here because I think it was formative. These days, all of the clothes I wear are given to me. I never buy clothes myself. I actually never shop. It would be nice to think that the clothes that are given to me are new, but I know they are not. Many are what in England would be called secondhand. As such, some of them can appear worn while others slightly misfit me. If you observe this and take into consideration the state of my room, for as I have famously stated before, I never dust, and the fact that these days I am seldom able to wash properly, you may well agree with me that the time I spent as a tramp in my early life has prepared me for my life in old age.

  When giving advice on style to others, I emphasize that I am not asking them to look as I do, merely to ask themselves the same questions that I have. Their conclusions may well be different from the ones that I reached. Nevertheless, I am free to give this advice because I have freed myself from the constraints that others buckle under. This gives me time to observe. This means that whether or not I have good or bad taste myself, I am able to discern it, good and bad, in others.

  My aversion to shopping comes from never really having worked and the fact that frugality has become a habit for me over the years. My dislike of shopping is surprising however, when you remember that I should have been born a woman. Had I been, I wonder if I would have been a very good woman. When it comes to buying things, the differences between the sexes is that men shop whereas women go shopping. I’ve never heard a man say, “I went out to buy a shirt. I didn’t see one, but I saw this very beautiful mackintosh so I bought it instead.” Women do it all the time. They come back with just the things they don’t want because they couldn’t find the things they did want.

  You’ll never see me in ‘the best shops’. It would be a waste of time. A woman who came to photograph my room commented on the various plastic bags that were lying around. One of them was from Henri Bendel, which had been given to me by a man who worked at Henri Bendel when he had brought some things for me. Another one was from Lord & Taylor, but had been similarly presented to me. The lady photographer beamed as she began snapping away “Oh. I see you shop at all the best shops.” To her, she had paid me a compliment. For me, I took what she said to be insulting.

  People who shop in ‘the best shops’ are the people who swan about from one department to another talking loudly and giving the assistants hell. I try to dislike no one, but I couldn’t dislike them more than I do. I did go to Bloomingdale’s when I first arrived here, however. A woman had said to me, “You can’t consider yourself an American unless you’ve been to Bloomingdale’s.” So, I took her at her word and we decided to pay the store a visit together. Unfortunately, it was the Saturday before Christmas and the shop was full to bursting. Even so, one dutiful assistant spent endless amounts of time with my friend, spraying various perfumes on her wrist and inviting her to sniff them. She was inexhaustibly polite despite being under tremendous pressure and rushed off her feet.

  “A bit too sharp? A bit too acid?” She would say, “Shall we try something a bit more floral?”

  The service was excellent though the experience was harrowing because every five seconds you would be barged by a forgetful husband who was rushing to find a last minute gift for his wife or girlfriend.

  The shops in London are not the same. Except for Harrods. In Harrods, much like in an American shop, you can do no wrong. But mostly English people do not like to be of service, so public servants typically all behave badly. Shopkeepers and sales assistants are no different. They don’t like you and they resent you if you haven’t seen exactly what it is you want. They will stand in front of you thinking, but not saying, “But it’s all there, for God’s sake. Make up your mind.” It’s much easier to shop in America though I recommend avoiding such places in the week before Christmas.

  Having said that I never shop, I do make one exception. Since I appeared in an advertisement for Mr. Klein42, I do feel an obligation to be loyal to him. As such I always wear Calvin Klein briefs even though the advertisement I appeared in was for the fragrance ck one. Sadly, Mr. Klein doesn’t give me the underwear for free, so I have to go into shops and buy it from time to time. They’re the only thing I have ever bought in the way of clothing my whole life. I couldn’t even tell you what size I buy. Small, I would think. Anyway, they are very comfortable.

  Being dependent on gifts from others for my clothes does mean that I sometimes accept items I end up not actually wearing. Some coats are too heavy for me, others simply don’t match anything else in my wardrobe no matter how I squint when I look in the mirror. The trouble is I can’t seem to say no. It has been my mantra my whole life, even when it is to my detriment.

  I never say no to anything because I am told that as I lie dying on an iron bedstead in a rented room, I shall not regret anything I did. Instead, I shall regret what I didn’t do. Therefore I say yes to everything in the hope of never having any regrets. I shall be just like Madame Piaf43.

  I don’t think you should ever say no to anything especially invitations or requests from others. I never decline because I feel that if I have come from England and been allowed to live in America I should be giving something back in return.

  Of course, saying yes to everything can get you in just as much trouble as saying no. I have now learned that the opposite of saying yes is not in fact no. It is saying, “I am not worthy.” which is a nicer way of saying no. You see, if someone says, “Will you marry me?” and you say, “No.” it’s unkind. Or if someone says, “Will you accept this great gift?” and you say, “No.” then they will think, “Who does he think he is?” But if you say, “I am not worthy.” then they go away content. They think, “Oh, that was nice.” And it’s quite a long time before they think realize it still means no.

  * * *

  41 Samuel Johnson, English writer, poet, biographer, editor and lexicographer, 1709-1784

  42 Calvin Klein, American fashion designer, b. 1942

  43 Édith Piaf, French cabaret singer, songwriter and actress, 1915-1963

  CHAPTER 7

  Living a Long Life

  I’ve often wondered about my longevity and what has made it possible for me to have lived so long. Principally, I think the answer is that I never asked anything of myself that is more than I can logically give. I don’t stay up when I feel tired even if the company and conversation are good. I don’t eat when I’m feeling full even if the food tastes good. I don’t continue to drink when I find myself getting drunk. I don’t walk when I find that I can’t walk anymore. But it was never my aim to live for as long as I have.

  I’ve never been a smoker. When I was young, there was still a social distinction which meant that, after a meal, the ladies would rise and go off into the drawing room, leaving the men to stay and smoke cigars or cigarettes and talk about politics and money. If you were a man and couldn’t take an interest in politics or money, you were an outsider. Consequently, I was an outsider. I would sit in those smoke-filled rooms after dinner while the other men talked. I never listened. I couldn’t follow the conversations. I wanted to be in the drawing room with the women.

  I may have smoked once, but only to prove to myself, and whoever was watching me, that I wasn’t a child. I never smoked in adult life. I didn’t think it would suit me. All that stain on your fingers and on your upper lip and, of course, the smell. I didn’t like it. I’ve asked people why they smoke and I’ve had some of the strangest answers. “I smoke because I’m lonely.” “I used to smoke because I wanted to seem sophisticated.” “I smoked because I didn’t know what to do with my hands.” These are problems I have never encountered, let alone sought to solve by lighting up a cigarette.

  Smoking is a waste of money. People spend a fortune on cigarettes. When I lived in London, even some of my poorest friends smoked. Many of them would borrow money from me in order to buy cigarettes and, of course, they would never pay me back. I had no money as it was, but they wanted me to lend them ten shillings so that they could smoke. Of course, they and all those men who talked about politics and money are all dead now and I am still alive. Is it because I never smoked cigarettes? I suppose it might be.

  Aside from avoiding excess, I know I do many things that doctors say I shouldn’t. I never eat the right food, I simply eat what I am given. I never take any exercise either. Yet here I still am. I think you have to have stamina to live a long life. If you haven’t got the stamina, you’d better not try because it’s simply not possible to take a break somewhere along the way. It’s an all-or-nothing proposition.

  In some ways I was uniquely unprepared for living a long life. Had I known how long I would live for, I wouldn’t have said as much as I did early on. Perhaps I could have published The Naked Civil Servant in two parts to eek it out a bit. If you know you’re going to live a long time you should say very little and remember what it is that you do say. Otherwise you’re doomed to repeat yourself over and over again as I do.

  As I think I said earlier, memory is one of the first things to go. I remember a lot about the distant past, but I don’t remember much about the immediate past. Chiefly, I remember what people have said rather than what they did or what they wore or looked like. My brain seems to be wired to remember words and this may account for my having such a large vocabulary. I’ve certainly never studied a dictionary. I think I liked words from very early on in my life though, even in my childhood I liked what were called ‘grown-up words’ and used them often.

  There is no great secret to living in New York City as a ninety-year-old. You simply do what you would do if you lived in any city. The point of living in New York is the people. They speak to you wherever you are and you have to be ready to reply. You cannot brush people off as it takes a great effort for them to speak to you. They say to me, “I’ve never spoken to you before. I didn’t dare.”

  And I ask, “What did you think would happen?”

  And they don’t know. I suppose they might fear me shouting at them, “Go away.” or, “Don’t speak to me.” or something like that. But I would never say such things. I gladly speak to anyone. I even allow a certain amount of waylaying time when I go out in case I have to stop and speak to people on the way to an appointment.

  Even the city’s homeless people stop me although it’s more often for money than my fame. I don’t think they ask me for money because I’m famous. Nevertheless, I always carry with me a certain amount of giving-away money, chiefly quarters, which I give to the people who ask for it. Someone once told me it’s bad to give homeless people money. They say I’m encouraging them to lead mendicant44 lives instead of pulling themselves together and getting a job. I don’t buy this argument. I know that they have been without jobs for so long that you’d have to teach them how to actually have a job long before you taught them a particular skill or trade.

  In a way, the homeless are like me. I have always lived in poverty because I had no capacity to earn a living. I had no capacity to command other people and that’s where the money is. When you are the company director, you earn more money than when you are a stenographer. So you are always at the losing end if you’re ‘a born victim’ because that’s the nature of society. I was commanded by everybody. I could never tell anybody what to do because I didn’t know how to do it.

  The key benefit of the above however is that you’re never to blame, which means you seldom feel guilty about anything. This might be another clue to my longevity. I have lived a guilt-free life. If you simply do what you’re told and you do the thing wrong, it’s not your fault because the only thing you could have done wrong was not to have obeyed the command you were given.

  During my brief tenure as a wage earner, I was very seldom to blame for anything unless when told to do something, I didn’t do it adequately. That would have annoyed my slave drivers and afterwards I’d be given the sack. I got the sack so often that in the end I became a freelancer. You can’t sack a freelancer. You can only refuse to give them more work.

  My life was poorer as a freelancer, but it was much easier. My time was my own because I could decide when I wanted to do my work within the constraints of meeting whatever deadline I’d been given. When you are a freelancer, you’re either rushed off your feet or else you can’t think how to fill in the time. Somehow I managed to go on like that for years. When I finally gave up being a freelancer, I got a job in the art department of a publisher. After that I moved to another job in a display firm. That’s when I worked in Greek Street in London’s Soho.

  I enjoyed working in display and the location of my employer suited my extracurricular activities perfectly. I was also their only employee. I had two bosses, both of whom were women. It was just the three of us. I did everything, more or less. They treated me almost as an equal and were very friendly. They weren’t at all superior or bossy.

  When I freelanced, I worried all the time about money because I only just had enough to live on. These days I manage somewhat better. Although I don’t have much, it would be nice if I could take what money I have managed to accumulate with me when I die. Of course, I can’t. I shall leave it to my nieces instead. It would be a pity to give all my money to the British or American government even though it was the British government that kept me until I was seventy-two and the American government that let me spend the twilight of my life here. I have managed to save a not inconsiderable amount of my earnings over the years45. It would have been a mistake to spend it. Money is really for hoarding or for giving away, not for spending.

  Many people ask me if I have any advice on what they should do with their finances. I have no advice. My money is in the bank and I never understand it. In England banking is a cottage industry. You can go into a bank and say to the girl behind the counter, “Is he in?”

  And she says, “I’ll see.”

  If he is, the bank manager that is, he’ll see you. You never get to see the bank manager of an American bank. Take my bank on Madison Avenue, for example. It’s the size of a cathedral and it’s manned by black ladies so elegant that their ankles are no wider than other people’s wrists. I once said to one of these women, “I seem to have two accounts with your bank.”

  And she said, “That is correct.”