Two years ago, without being ennobled in any Honours list or recourse to surgery, I gained a new title. To the list of Mrs Graham, Mum and Nonna, I added Brother. It signified that I had become a resident of the Charterhouse almshouse.
The title is, if nothing else, a conversation piece. If I’m required to attend a party where I’m unlikely to know any of the other guests, I now wear my Charterhouse badge. It catches the eye and, at the age of 75, having my right breast scrutinised is no longer open to misinterpretation. ‘Brother Laurie?’ they say. ‘How intriguing. Do tell.’
Comrade? Too Leninist. Citizen? I hear the creak of tumbril wheels. Messer? Too military. Friend? Creepy
When Thomas Sutton founded his alms-house in 1611, he stipulated that the residents should be called Poor Brothers. My own interpretation of his wish is that, unlike most almshouses, where people live in their little cottages and may have no more social contact than a chat over the garden gate, we at the Charterhouse eat together every day.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in