The driver is revving up one of Dad's three cars outside my room. I open the door of a car and jump in, except that it's like throwing your arse into a fire, and I jiggle around, the driver laughing, his teeth jutting as if he never saw anything funny before.'Drive me,' I say. 'Drive me somewhere in all this sunlight. Please. Please.' I touch him and he pulls away from me. Well, he is rather handsome. 'These cars don't need to be revved. Drive!'He turns the wheel back and forth, pretending to drive and hit the horn. He's youngish and thin – they all look undernourished here – and he always teases me.'You stupid bugger.'See, ain't I just getting the knack of speaking to servants? It's taken me at least a week to erase my natural politeness to the poor.'Get going! Get us out of this drive!''No shoes, no shoes, Nina!' He's pointing at my feet.'No bananas, no pineapples', I say. 'No job for you either, Lulu. You'll be down the Job Centre if you don't shift it.'Off we go then, the few yards to the end of the drive. The guard at the gate waves. I turn to look back and there you are standing on the porch of your house in your pyjamas, face covered with shaving cream, a piece of white sheet wrapped around your head because you've just oiled your hair. Your arms are waving not goodbye. Gloomie, my suddenly acquired sister, runs out behind you and shakes her fists, the dogs barking in their cage, the chickens screaming in theirs. Ha, ha.
Hanif Kureishi, « With Your Tongue down My Throat »
