One day, you’ll work for Rag Dolly. She’ll be fair, she won’t judge you. Laughing at your apathetic face as you realise the bills are stacking up. She won’t hurt you, like you hurt her and her words will not be cold, her tea might be. Your world could crash around you, and she’ll offer you a nice British cup of tea, that’s all you want, for Britian to be British. So she’ll make you a cup of tea, dust you off and send you back to work. Maybe she’ll send you to die, isn’t that the British way? Pride in racism? Doing as we’re told? Dying for approval and the nod of the lady in the crisp white blouse?

How elitist of you, how very Ronny of you, how very Benup of you, how very charming and witty. I suppose that was your first trick, standing on the top of the slide waving down at mother. “Mummy, look at me, I can make fun of a Muslim!”

I’m sure she was bursting with pride. You slid your way down, laughing with glee and landed perfectly, managing to kick a girl in the face on your way down. You grabbed her by the collar of her ill fitting winter coat and pulled her along. Rag dolly you called her, although she pleaded to be called Lara, yes, Rag Dolly followed you everywhere, for a fiver, which she took home and gave to her Rag Dolly mummy, who pleaded to be called Christine when she followed your mummy at work. You trampled on your Rag Dolly sometimes, threw her, pushed her, hurt her during a tantrum, then demanded cuddles when you felt all better, so she told you to stuff it and ran away. Rag Dolly and Rag Dolly senior moved away that year, just the two of them. You cried for a day then enjoyed your summer holidays, ignoring her and thinking about how cool you were.