Dear Morry,

My dear, dear friend, where are you going? Have you checked your wallet or your moneybag today? Have you done your daily count-up? Yes, don't pretend you don't do it. I've seen you do it, Dolly's seen you do it. We've watched you do the circuit of your bedroom. There's the dosh under the third drawer of your wardrobe, the notes stuffed imaginatively under your mattress, the loose change in the shaving mug. It doesn't matter how often you count it, it's always going to add up to the same!

Twenty pound notes just don't turn into fifty pound notes if you keep counting them. And, anyway, it's all just paper! OK, it's paper that can be swapped for two weeks in Magalufe, or a new house extension or a nice fat salt beef sandwich at Nathan's Nosherie. But you know you're never going to use it for these things. It is too sacred for that, in this religion of yours. You say you're not religious but when you do your daily count-up you are performing an act of worship, if you only knew it!

You are high priest, your altar is the duvet cover of your bed and your holy artefacts are the tiny bundles of dog-eared paper that you sprawl across this altar, as you engage in your daily ritual. As you recite your litany, "one hundred, one hundred and ten, twenty, thirty, forty ...." and your heart is warmed with that pleasant feeling of security, don't you ever pause to think?

What sacrifices did you have to make, do you still make, to maintain the status quo? Just think what you had to do to earn this security blanket of yours. Do you really need to work those extra two days a week driving that taxi just to maintain this excess money? Morry, you're 70 years old! When you were 60 you said you were going to keep up the taxi for another 5 years then retire and live off your pensions, like everyone else your age. Then, when you hit 65 you said the same thing! Now, believe it or not, you're saying the same thing again! When you're 75 do you honestly believe that your clarity of thought and speed of reaction are going to sustain your three-times-a-week habit of dragging tired bones out of bed at 3am to drive unsuspecting drug dealers, pimps and drunks (who else would be hailing a taxi at that time of the morning?) around the streets of London.

When's it all going to end? I'll tell you when it's going to end. It's going to end in some darkened London street just before dawn when your heart's going to scream out to you 'I should be in bed at this ungodly hour lazily sending blood horizontally around resting arteries. I've had enough of this lark!' Or perhaps it'll be raining hard and you've shot the lights because it takes longer for a 70 year old brain to send signals to the right muscles in the legs and feet and ended up in a metallic concertina sticking out the side of an articulated lorry. Or maybe it will be at the hands of a group of teenage thugs, lurking in the shadows behind the nice looking young man who'd just hailed you and signalled that 'here's a good target, it's an old 'un!'.

But you're indestructible, aren't you? You can go on forever, can't you? You're the master of your destiny. Yet, you haven't always been, have you? Like the time when you were lying in King George's with tubes sticking out of you and monitors clicking and humming around you. That was 8 years ago and it was your second angina attack. I bet you would gladly have dumped your bedroom gods for the chance of life, then. It's when your body lets you down and you lose control when your thoughts move to higher things. I bet there may have even been the feeling that, perhaps, they were the cause of your predicament. You know , the stress of the job and all that. But, of course, you survived that and, very soon, with the help of those little white pills were able to carry on as normal, which, for you, meant doing exactly what you were doing before the warning.

Yes, a warning, that's what it was. A warning is for the lucky few. It's when the body tells you that, against its better judgement, it won't pack it all in yet, but here's a little hint that things aren't working as well as they should and perhaps, if you do something about it, it won't happen again, or at least not for a long time. You know what a warning is, don't you, Morry. It's when you get that flashing light on the dashboard to tell you you're low on oil or petrol or water. What do you do then? Do you ignore it and just let your taxi grind to a halt with an empty tank, a steaming radiator or a gasping engine? I bet you don't because no taxi means no work means no money.

But the equation's the same with your body - no heart means no body means no life. So, get a life ..... literally! But I digress. Let's talk about this 'security money' of yours. You say that you need it, it's important for your peace of mind. But what about Dolly's peace of mind? Or Lonnie, your son? Or Ronnie, your grandson? They don't need your house (nice semi in the leafy suburbs), your life insurance payout (sizeable) or even your set of golf clubs (mind you ...). Believe it or not, they would rather have you! You say that this 'security money' of yours is really for them, it's to help them out when they're needy. But they don't want it, I have this on good authority! If they took money off you out of your beloved 'stash', we know that you'll only work like the clappers to restore it to its full amount. And at what cost?

Look, this is getting boring. Let me offer you a compromise. How much do you take a day? £40? £50? Let's say it's £50 and your weekly takings are therefore £150 (plus your pension, of course). How much of that do you actually need to live on? There's only two of you, with no mortgage or expensive hobbies. I bet you only need £50 extra to live on. So, therefore, you're working an extra 2 days a week just to feed your 'money stash'! How about this idea - you only work one of those days and give the money straight to Lonnie (or me, if you're feeling particularly generous). He'll put it into savings to support his family if he needed it in the future. So you won't need to worry any more, he'll take over the worship of the money and you can have a clear conscience. And, if you're restless in that extra day you'll have every week, come over to my house. You can cook, do our shopping and cleaning. And if you're still full of guilt after all that lot, we can lock you in a room and force you to watch re-runs of Brookside!

Alternatively .... I've got an even better idea. Examine yourself and your needs and see them for what they are. Firstly, why do you need this 'security money'? I know it goes back to your youth, most of these sort of things do. We know all your stories about how poor and hungry you all were in your large family in the East End in the 30s and how you took charge of your brothers and sisters as your father was a no-good gambling drunkard. We hear your stories how you used to look forward to Christmas, when your mum would present you with a juicy orange, an unheard-of luxury. We know that you use humour to gloss over these hardships from your youth, but we know that even your silly jokes can't hide the fact that your scars of insecurity from your youth have never left you. I'm no psychologist but I'll always remember the words of great uncle Sigmund (Finkelbaum, not Freud - who wants to pay obscene amounts of money to a shrink when the kosher butcher from Brick Lane gave advice for free, along with the kishkas). 'empty belly today, tzuris tomorrow!' On the other hand, it could have just been a sales spiel. But you can see the truth there, hidden within this homily.

Our childhoods shape our adult life. That's why I'm still addicted to wine gums and my sister Michele still reads at the dining table. OK, in our cases they're just habits picked up from our formative years, but we had a reasonably stable upbringing. But you had a harder life and you're still making it hard for yourself and for the rest of your family, you silly old fool!

Secondly, how do you know it's enough? Lonnie might find himself at the end of an expensive lawsuit, or Dolly might need expensive hospital treatment (nose job, perhaps?). It might come to a massive total that your funds wouldn't even begin to cover. What would you do then? Give them all the money, then work 8 days a week to make up the difference, then a further 3 days a week to rebuild your 'security money'? There's only 7 days in a week! You'll never do it! Your bedroom god will have let you down in this hour of need. You'll be totally helpless, 'security money or no security money!'

I was watching this film the other night. It was called 'The Firm' and starred Tom Cruise. It was a strange film in a way because it was about an American law firm, yet there wasn't a single Jewish face to be seen! But there was one good line in it. Two characters were discussing the importance of amassing loads and loads of money, but one of them was very insecure and said, 'how much will it take to feel safe?'. There was no answer. What I'm really saying is this; No-one really knows what's round the corner. So why worry about it? Worry about today, let tomorrow worry about tomorrow. These are not my words, these are words from a rabbi from the first century, so listen to him, if you're not listening to me.

Loosen up, old man, enjoy your family, your wife, your delightful children, your grandchildren. You've hit 70. Enjoy these years, you've worked hard enough for them. Relax and celebrate these autumn years. Stop pretending you're still a provider, let the state and your savings provide for you. So you've got to cut down a little on your holidays and dinner parties, but isn't a small sacrifice worth it for a decent extended retirement to enjoy your grandchildren before the grim reaper comes a-knocking?

To put a clever word to it all, you're just a materialist, aren't you? In the belief that everyone has a need to worship something, in your case it's material objects, represented by 'money'. Money is your idol, your golden calf. Although you are comforted by the security it represents, it is the money that you are venerating. But it can't give you real security, it can't answer your prayers. It gives no assurances, no solid hope for the future. My final plea to you is, give up the past and embrace the future. Grasp that which can give real hope. What, you don't know what that is? Well, we've told you enough times. You only need to ask, so do so. And the next time Dolly or Ronnie or Lonnie (or even Johnnie) need a bit of cash they'll just go to the bank, like everybody else.

Your young (-ish) friend,

Moishe