Back in the early sixties, when I first started out, insolvency spelt glamour. It was OK to be broke – more than OK, since money was well-known to be the super-foe of books. It was Mammon v. the Muses: take your pick. In those days, if a writer owned up to caring about money, he was instantly branded a dud. ‘He’s got a what? A mortgage? Well, I have to say I always had my doubts. I mean, his line-breaks did seem a bit arbitrary.‘ The avowed aim was to treat money rather as money seemed likely to treat us: with altitudinous contempt.