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.”

“I’m sorry, did you say you worked for the…?” An arched eyebrow, a quizzical look, a quick reappraisal of the dreadlocks, the accent (could she be American? perhaps Welsh?), the attitude, the general foreign-ness. “Oh! Well!” And so on, and such like. It’s not that I’m the only black person in the building, at these [...]