They call us “The Windrush Generation,” but I never came to England on any banana boat. I flew in from Kingston to London on a TWIA flight and was there in under 12-hours from door-to-door. I had no desire whatsoever to be cooped up onboard a ship at sea with all and sundry for weeks on end.
I am stuck in one room of somebody’s house in Catford. The funny thing is that my husband and I used to offer lodgings to the parents of this woman in whose house I’m living. There was a time, not too long ago, when nobody wanted to live in Catford. Catford was a place you passed through on your way to somewhere better. Dulwich, Thornton Heath or Forest Hill were the places of choice, then. Now you can barely walk through Catford without bumping into a new estate agency set in between the £1 stores.
I had been out all day. My feet were swollen. My briefcase and handbag had suddenly become like lead bricks in my hands. I was glad to spot a number 199 bus at a stop up ahead, going from Lewisham to Rushey Green. I ran towards the bus stop as fast as my tired legs would carry me, but with little hope of catching the bus, it seemed as if the driver was holding on for me.