This week has provided me, a black person born and raised in Britain, with another of those regular gentle reminders seemingly intended to make me feel I don't belong here.OMG! What could it be?
That infamous sign ('No Dogs. No Blacks. No Irish') on a nearby B&B?
A separate drinking fountain in his office kitchen?
A lynched body slowly twirling on a rope at his local park?
No. It's the heinous crime of being unable to find a card with a black face on it for Mother's Day in WH Smiths.
Hey, stop laughing at the back there! This is serious:
Choosing a card is difficult enough, without having to discard a whole section because it effectively excludes you. But people of colour are so used to this that it's just become one of those little irritations we have to grin and bear.Oh, Joseph! You're so noble and stoic!
I can feel a tear welling up inside. No, really, I can!
Frankly, I'm sick of missing out on the joke cards, and always having to choose cuddly teddies (as, I'm sure, is my other half who receives them).Well, if you're sick of teddies, Joseph old chum, there's always these instead.
The comments, needless to say, are hilarious...
Update: Ross at Unenlightened Commentary noted this one too, and had the foresight to copy his favourite comment (from a CiF contributor) before the mods ran amok, zapping everything into oblivion.