Writing a piece about my mum for a new anthology, I recalled how the tiny room in which we lived till I was thirteen, often held up to ten people at meal times. There was one armchair and a double bed. They'd perch around its edges or sit on the floor. My mum prepared feasts on a two ringed Belling cooker. We had jack shit, but what we had we shared. Our social life was one glorious whirl. Because our friends were the same. That support structure is still strong, forty years on. Earlier this week, my richest friend had a birthday dinner in Soho. For the first time I can remember, she paid. This was so out of character, the consensus was that she'd brokered a deal with the club owner. Not one guest believed she was doing it for the joy of giving. Because few people who can, do... What is it about money that it strips us of our internal lives? Our concerns change to the external. We cherish bank statements, the car, the holidays. The emphasis changes from giving to getting. It's easier to pay a happiness coach £100 an hour, than spend that amount generating happiness with others. My youngest is spending the weekend with an old mate: one of six kids in a small council flat. The dad, a postal worker, does nights so he can help after school. As she left, I handed over spending money. "Don't be silly," the mum said. "We're taking them to Margate tomorrow and doing a barbie on Sunday. She doesn't need money. We've got everything that's necessary." I watched them go enviously. Because they have:-)