The tabloid press are still trying to convince panicky, white, Middle England that "blacks will be a majority" at some invisible point in the future. Tales of immigrants coming here to steal our jobs, of bogus asylum-seekers scrounging our benefits, crop up again and again.

Happily, in my sheltered enclave of cosmopolitan north London, the ghost of the late Enoch Powell has been confined to the dustbin of history. But outside my patch, things are not quite as cosy.

Two incidents this month have shown me that bigotry is thriving.

The other day, a very pleasant-seeming taxi driver was chatting to me about his three beautiful daughters when the car in front suddenly made a turn without indicating. The cabbie said mildly that the driver was "obviously not one of our colour". He didn't even glance in the rear-view mirror to catch my expression; he presumed that I'd agree that being white somehow makes you a better driver.

I also came face to face with institutional racism during my overnight stay in hospital following the birth of my daughter.

The Slovakian mum in the bed opposite was recovering from a Caesarean section. The Asian lady in the bed next to me was distressed because her newborn was refusing to feed. There was just one other lady on our small ward, an African woman whose enormous son weighed in at more than 10lb; she, too, was recovering from a C section.

At 10.30am, a consultant grandly swept into our domestic haven and stilled our tired but cheerful chit-chat. He had a class of students in tow, and the entourage headed directly for the Asian lady with feeding problems. With only a curtain for privacy, the rest of us heard him berating the exhausted mother for having "yet another baby". To say he was rude is an understatement.

"You have three other children," he continued, "don't you think you've had enough now?" And then he got to the point: "What about sterilisation? Do you understand? H'm? We can book you an appointment before you leave. No more babies." This aggressive badgering continued for more than five minutes. He even asked if her husband had a job. The poor woman stonewalled and shyly said that she would like to consult her husband before making such a permanent decision. "Very well," he tutted. "But a decision must be made before you leave here, understand?"

Then it was the African lady's turn. Her "crime" appeared to be that she had given birth to her first son in Africa. Turning to the students, the consultant said: "So, one baby in Africa, another in Europe; where will the next one be born - South America?" He ended this interview by asking: "Are you planning to live in this country?" Just what relevance this quizzing had to her medical condition was unclear.

When he left, followed by the red-faced students, there were a few moments of stunned silence. Then the eastern European mum announced: "My mother had 14 babies, maybe I will have the same. We decide how many babies to have, not him."

Our angry, rebellious laughter followed him down the corridor.

Before I left the ward, my consultant very gently broached the question of birth control with me. His tone said I should keep it in mind, but not to worry. Sterilisation was not suggested, and my husband's income seemed of little interest.