“Guess where she works!”

He, a tall beautiful dread, considered me for a moment. “Give me a clue.”

“Well, she’s a journalist,” said my loctician, while I squirmed in a mixture of ouch-you’re-pulling-my-hair and embarrassment.

“Aha! The Voice!” he said, referring to the UK’s major “Afro-Caribbean” newspaper.

“No, try again.”

“New Nation!” he said, confident I was an employee of The Voice’s major rival.

“No no no. She working for a white man newspaper.”

“Oh ho? The Observer? The Times?”

“No, whiter than that.”

“The Guardian!” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

“No, no it’s none of the above,” I said, at last, and confessed.

He stared for a moment. “Serious? Freelance or staff?”

“Staff.”

“Pensions and everything? Well done girl. Show them white people what we can do.”