Autobiography

PROLOGUE
THE STENCH OF POVERTY
Every morning I take a short walk that reminds
me who I am, and where I came from. This is
not a stroll around the gardens or golf course
at my house in Surrey. Nor does it involve a
trip to one of my shops, or to John Adam
Street, where I ran my first bookshop so many
years ago. It has nothing to do with the
airport, where my fleet of jets take off, or
printing plants, or football grounds. It’s a much
simpler walk than that, out of my bedroom,
across the hall and down a short flight of
stairs. There, on the landing, is a mirror, and
every single morning, without fail, I pause in
front of it for a few moments to straighten my
tie, and look myself in the eye.
On the wall behind me are photographs from
my childhood; grainy black-and-white pictures
of us as children with our lovely Mum. There is
one of me with her and our tin bath hanging
from the wall next to the outside toilet at our
home in Green Street; and pictures a few
years later, again with Mum, this time looking
worn out, exhausted, but still smiling, despite
everything we endured.
I think humility is very important, and it is
good to have Lesley, my fiancée, making sure I
don’t become Billy Big-Time, as my friend Tom
Ross often calls me. One day Lesley and I were
shopping at Harrods in London. When we’d
finished, my driver Mark pulled up outside and
with the help of the doorman loaded up the
boot with our purchases.
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