FOR HALF MY life, I tried hard to fit in with others and never really managed it, so now I hardly try. Better to be a standout lone wolf than lost in a flock of sheep, I always say; but then, I've always had to say it; and often to myself, to boot.

In my case, disparity began at home, with parents who must have spent more and more time, the older I grew, wondering if I was really their child. It would have been all right if it was just my Dad,

THANK GOD IT'S FRIDAY returned to the Guardian last week and, the very Friday, my inbox was flooded with an email. Additionally, I received as many as one phone call (from an old girlfriend, wanting to know if I was divorced again yet). And then my editors gave me the ‘welcome back' letters below. Apparently, people prefer to engage my superiors rather than me; like most of the women I've ever met. I can confirm they are 100 per cent authentic because I made them up myself.

Sirs

The Prime Minister -sorry, the Ex-Prime Minister - the Ex-Prime Minister is having difficulty adjusting to the Ex-Prime Minister's new status - the Ex-PM notes with disdain, ladies and gentlemen, the return of Beastly Pires. The Ex-Prime Minister would like to point out to the Beast that

From today, Friday 2 July, Thank God It's Friday is once more appearing in a Trinidadian newspaper, to wit, the Guardian. The first TGIF I wanted to appear there, in hard copy, was written for this website about a month ago, but it is one that, I think, resonated across the board - A House for Ms Bissessar - and, as I write that, I wonder how much of the resonance came from the title itself, which, of course, was written more by VS than BC. In any event, rather than have a lag between website and paper, I'm using this column, written ten years ago, as a spacer.

An Ounce of Bas

THERE USED to be a character hanging around Port of Spain who went by the names of Ounce (pronounced "Ounks") or Ounces (Ounkses). As a child I was told God had always existed and, if that is indeed so, there is a good chance Ounces was God. He was always around. The very first morning I entered the gate of St Mary's College after doing the 11-Plus,

THE OLD BLACK dog was lying on the pavement again. He'd arrived a little earlier each day - he'd pulled up the handbrake before ten to five that morning - and she hadn't been there but, by the time he'd finished his run, she was in her usual place once more, back pressed against the concrete wall around the apartment building opposite the park, head down on her crossed forepaws, eyes closed.

In the week he'd been watching her, she'd never left that spot, unless it rained, when she took to the apartment building corridor, walking so slowly she was almost drenched by the time she reached shelter. His business would take him around the park several times every day and, every time he looked for her,