The Liming House

“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.”

“You from Trinidad! But you not half-caste!” “I’m sorry?” Walking out of Brixton tube station and into the rain, my forlorn pink umbrella, long conquered by the wind, hanging uselessly by my side. “Excuse me miss!” The voice, polite and distinctly not English, cut through the insistent chorus of skunkweedtravelcardsgetyourhighgrade. I paused. An older man, [...]