In the plane I am the only person of color. I don't usually notice it, my difference I guess, as I am often the only person of colour in most places in the small town where I live. There are, it must be noted, a small number of non-white people in the town--Chinese, Filipino, Malaysian, Indian, Pakistani, African, and even another Cambodian woman, who moved here after meeting a young man from the town in her city. But I only ever see these people on the street or in the shops and takeaways where they work.

Anyways on the plane I chat with my neighbours Pat and Raymond, an older couple from Derry. Well, it is Pat who does the most talking, with an occasional comment from Raymond, who is otherwise engrossed by his book, Empireland: How Imperialism Has Shaped Modern Britain by Sathnam Sanghera. I first noticed Pat in the smoking area at the airport, wearing a fuzzy periwinkle coat, skinny blue jeans and tan suede ankle boots. Friendly and gentle, she asks lots of questions and shows me, beaming, a video of her niece's wedding. Like us, Pat and Raymond have no children.

As the plane approaches the airport, Pat spots my thumb, black with ink from my leaking fountain pen, and jokes to my husband, sitting across the aisle, that I'm ready for Ash Wednesday. She repeats the same line, and a woman, short with blue hair and smudged tattoos and acrylic talons, turns to stare. Pat lifts my thumb and presses it against my forehead, and smiles at me, as if sharing a secret joke.

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