If you’re like me and were one of the only two black girls in your hometown, you’ve probably dated a lot of white boys. The options were a little slim otherwise, one being Mr Patel, the lovely corner shop owner who was three times my age, or the black boy in class who got expelled in Year 8.
My white boy dating roster is packed with some drama. I’ve dated white roadmen from South London (I know, but I was young), dreamy French men in the mountains of South-East Asia, Lithuanian wannabe rock stars, middle-class soft boys and Spanish señors.
But let’s start at the beginning, shall we?
The year was 2012. I had just left my fascist secondary school in the depths of suburban Essex where no one ‘got me’, and began my first year of college. It was around this time I decided to ditch the purple hair dye and black eyeliner for a set of curly hair extensions and the brightest red lipstick I could find.