“It’s not that I’m racist,” he says, “I just don’t like spades.”
I immediately make a joke to try to circumvent his inevitable excruciating racist diatribe,
“So how do you do your gardening?”
The puzzled look in his eyes suggests I might just as well have said the same thing in Russian; he doesn’t get it, it didn’t work.
“No…” he says, “sorry, not spades, I mean blacks.”
Fuck I think, here we go again…