In the West Indian community where I grew up, The Federation of Grown-Ups (FGU) were like military operatives. They scrutinised our body language for the smallest signs of transgression. If caught, the adult on duty might issue a CDW — Cease & Desist Warning. Those feeling less generous, would radio for back-up.

Unfairness first came to me in the unremarkable blocks of flats where I grew up in North West London. Not unfair because my siblings and I were poorer than the other kids. We had long ago accepted there was no money for the delightful crap other people enjoyed.

The last time my hand trembled over a love letter to someone was in high school. Pen, paper, spit on a government-approved stamp, and a red postbox all played leading roles. I loved letters: pen-pal letters, newsy letters, and misleading letters to home from, well, anywhere. But my love letter was to Peter, the bad boy of our school year.

When I first fell pregnant, my mother and other elders were happy for me but cautious. They were anxious that I didn’t get ahead of myself and agreed with the world that I shouldn’t reveal a new pregnancy straight away, “in case.” The word miscarriage is routinely substituted for ellipsis and knowing looks.

Several years ago, my sister and I did a remarkable thing — we attended an Anthony Robbins three-day convention. That wasn’t the remarkable part. The remarkable part was we let a stranger convince us to walk over hot coals.