At 11 I learned the colour of my skin would dictate the way I was treated. A school friend and I were out in Enfield Town, when a woman pulling a tartan trolley told us the BNP and National Front were marching, and I should hide inside a shop as they didn’t like my “sort”.
Right then I realised I’d have a different experience in the world to my blonde-haired, blue-eyed friend.The “Lady” in my name isn’t a title, it started as a nickname to clarify that I’m not a bloke called Phil.I became politically active at school, although I didn’t know it.
I’d be kicked out of classrooms for asking questions: Why were we only being taught about the Battle of Hastings and Henry VIII’s wives?