personality stays for life. So why not develop that, mnn?’

Crap. It was what you looked like that mattered

and I was repulsive with dark skin and wiry hair.

I vomited up the words Ugly Bitch all over my diary

until exhausted, relieved, enraged. I knew myself.

O TO CARTWHEEL knickerless into spring.

I stumbled wobbly on platform clogs, seeking balance.

O to re-birth as a Gauguin lovely, desire, the dilution

of flaky granules in water avec milk ou crème,

subsumed, dissolved, a perfect morning cuppa, ta –

soft sugar, the hard currency of plantations,

brown rocks refined, cane’s sugar crystallised

into beautiful white sand, sweet history caught up with me.

Mrs MacDonald. O, she of the Harris tweed, requested

my contralto deliverance of I Have a Dream at Assembly.

Me, the only one of out 500 non-frizzy heads. As if.

Miss Hughes on a field trip. O, she of the plastic

pearls, a receding ginger bun, ushered me aside,

advised I tone down my dress sense or I’d attract

attention. History determined I should not flaunt

my amazing technicolour Joseph coat and tilting red beret

proclaiming I AM HERE, JE SUIS ICI. Forever.

Toujours. You fucking merdes. I was French noir,

Parisien, peu’aps. How exoteeeeque. I didn’t want to

blend in because I couldn’t. I wanted to be noticed.

Our planet revolved calmly, patiently, eternally,

sometimes with me, sometimes not.

‘DON’T SAY hello then, you miserable lot.’

A loud, nasal mix of churning, crackling globules,

Cousin Beatrice was down from Liverpool for the week,

an Angela Davis wig set off cerise lips, lime green flares

draped over pink suede platforms, at nearly six foot tall

she burst into the Best Room like a gust of wild laughter

arrested mid-flow by the tribe’s television spines

supporting crew-cuts, Topsy plaits and wonky Afros.

‘Hello Bea,’ Juliana managed a quick comma of a smile

as Beatrice nose-dived for Ginevra slouched in the one

armchair near the fire. ‘Show some respect, Ginevra.’

She relinquished the throne like a snake, slid to the floor.

‘Tell me what happens,’ Ladipo whimpered behind a cushion

as Trampas was punched by an outlaw in The Virginian.

‘Eeeh, but you’re a soppy lot,’ Beatrice cackled.

‘It’s only a film, you know.’ She flicked open a map-of-Africa

lighter, lit a cigarette, its brown filter made pink and wet.

She curled into the chair like a question mark

as the phone emitted a series of vulgar, jarring burps.

Fabian hurdled the sofa to get it, ‘It’s for you, Poo-liana.’

Lara shouted out, ‘Come and peel the mangoes, Juliana.’

‘What’s that in aid of?’ Beatrice puzzled. ‘It’s only our joke,’

Lara grinned. ‘Mangoes are black food, geddit?’

She shouted out again, the credits rolled, she skipped out.

EVENING hit the skyline, diffused the light.

Snapping shortbread in the fading kitchen, Beatrice

awaited Lara, who came in search of custard creams.