Ah Change Haf Fe Come

I spent three days at The Independent last week, sub-editing (checking copy, grammar, spelling, laying out pages) on one of the Saturday supplements, and trying desperately to hide my inadequacies with Quark Xpress. I always feel a bit nervous when I go to new paper, which is normal I suppose. On arrival I'm greeted by one of the subs and shown to my temporary computer. I do a quick scan of the room for people of colour. I don't see any. This is the floor of the Independent on Sunday, and I think the Saturday paper. Oh well. I'm still one of the pioneers in this game. It just seems so impenetrable when you look around the newsroom and see the usual blancmange (cos there sho' ain't no melange) of white faces. When the fuck am I going to get my break? What more do I have to do? Who's fucking lily-white dick do I need to suck to get a gig UP IN HERE, UP IN HERE?!? For those not possessed of irony that was completely hypothetical, and no I won't do it for five grand.

I had Friday off, so took babygirl to see The West Indian Front Room exhibition at the Geffrye Museum in Shoreditch/Dalston. A bit of an education for her in the interior decor cultural signifiers of the Windrush generation. It was closing on Sunday, so I felt it was important to represent. If you don't go to these things it makes the case harder for people to get funding. Like it ain't hard enough already.

She'd just spent five days with Grandma, so had had a fresh taste of parenting the old school way. Lots of shouting is involved, and jumping to attention when called. Also, a psychic connection is required to find anything my mum asks you to fetch as her description usually goes: "Get de ting and de ting, from de ting!". Pause. 1.2. She screams: "YUH NO FINE DE TING YET?!?". The food's good there though.

As it was half-term, it was pretty busy, with all ages represented. Lots of people brought their mums, and grandmas to see this exhibition of a typical West Indian front room which I'm sure lots of my fellow 'slave babies' can relate to. The cluttered decor, the glass-front cabinets overstuffed with figurines, and cheap glass animals, crochet doilies atop television sets which occupied prime position within the space. Vinyl and fabric three-piece suites, with crochet armrests, and the burgundy and gold swirly carpet. The glass fish, ceramic cockerel, and the pineapple ice bucket. It was all there. The exhibition brought back so many memories I was literally transported back to the home of my youth, with the orange and brown seventies wallpaper, the lino floor (till we got the carpet), and sateen curtains.

The way people posed in the photo's taken by Neil Kenlock, as had my family, was typical of the period. They sat in front of televisions, or next to stereo's, inanimate objects which to them portrayed the good life they were leading 'inna h'englan'. Like some of the exhibited photo's, my gran posed next to a sideboard, in her finest clothes, looking like one of the Supreme's in her shiny black wig.

Old dial-front phones could be used to listen to aural histories of people who remembered a time when you couldn't play in the 'front room'. It was a room of mystery. You didn't just breeze in, flinging open the door, and sitting down where you pleased. You peeked in or you knocked the door. You crawled in on your stomach, behind the sofa to watch Rock Follies, or Benny Hill without mum and dad seeing you. You ramped in there when your mum went shopping, broke something, tried to hide it, got found out and then got 'beats' (a beating) and sent to bed without dinner while the sun still shined and your friends voices drifted into your room from downstairs in the block.

Clarke tried to use the dial-front phone, but she didn't know how. I showed her and some other kids how to use the dial feeling every one of my 36 years. But when a woman came and asked if I could show her how to use the camera on her mobile, I directed her to Clarke.

The contrast between my childhood and Clarke's seems so vast, and sometimes, you're so caught up in the 'now', that these memories rarely resurface. But the exhibition gave me the opportunity to really share some stories of my childhood with her, and show her how different things were back then. How strict our parents were, the obsession with keeping things clean and tidy, and the way that the responsibility for housework became ours at an early age. How much value was placed on these artefacts, which were basically cheap mass produced tat, styled in imitation of English homes and their more expensive antique tat cluttering the place.

If my daughter breaks something in the house - like the time she collapsed and broke the whole bookcase, by leaning on it while sitting on her bike (despite being told not to do that several times) - she's more likely to hear a level ten volume rant, rather than feel the back of my hand, or a broom, slipper, tennis racket or belt on her behind. Our front room is our shared space. It reflects the lack of formality between us as parent and child. Although I do claim my own regular spot on the sofa.

Seeing the exhibition, and how different things are now in our uber modern and stylish homes (mine not included) it seems that while some things have changed really quickly, others are still not changing fast enough.