We began our journey on Dundonald Street, Port of Spain, Trinidad. We lived in the house of MacDonald Thomas, Alex’s grandfather. We had our first child there and washed his diapers on a juking board at the back sink, until we were seduced by disposable nappies. On a sleek black record player we listened to reggae and jazz, accompanied by rain on the galvanized roof. The wooden floorboards creaked reassuringly. The paved yard was painted dark red. The front room was the old abandoned grocery shop. But the living room was cosy and small, with two old wooden chairs and yellow wooden walls.
