On Monday morning I woke up to the beat of electronic music drumming in the living room like it were Saturday. Or at least Thursday. I slipped into my jeans, half angered, half asleep, and walked outside looking more for an explanation than a fight. Except for my flatmate, the room was deserted, the subwoofer booming. His head bobbled from side to side like a serpent making its way up a tree, his left hand twitched not so much nervously as involuntarily, and he shuffled from one foot to the other as if he had been standing for a long time . . .
The Caribbean is, above all, a sentiment, a rhythm, a way of life. In this respect, I grew up in a place that is both essentially Caribbean and, at the same time, desperately seeking to avoid its Caribbean nature . . .
Some highlights from the London International Book Fair, compiled in the Garden View Hotel on Nevern Square, overlooking a, well, a garden, after three full days of half-hour upon half-hour meetings culminating in two cocktail engagements with three amazing people who reminded us why we do what we do, even if what we do sometimes […]
