Being white means living longer, having more leisure time and a better quality of life than any other race on this planet. Being English means that most of the world tries to speak your language, too - which is nice. So I still remember the shock I felt the first time that my English accent and fair skin became not a blessing but a liability.

Debbie and I were outside a council estate in Tottenham, north London. Ten floors up, hard-core ragga pounded out. All around, black girls were sucking their teeth at us (for those not in the know about urban etiquette, this is not a good thing). A couple of black guys eyed us up.

"Right," whispered Debbie, leaning close and handing over a pocket-squashed spliff. "I'm from Harlesden. You're from Wembley."

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you want to get a beating?"

"Not really."

"Well then, drop the Hampstead la-di-da and say you're from Wembley, OK?"

Race always confused me as a teenager. I was bad because I was white and lived in a nice area (which seemed fair enough to me), and no one else was racist because only whites were bigots (which made no sense at all).

One night, my half-Irish, half-Jamaican best mate was approached by an African guy of about 19 in the foyer of a club. We were there with our usual West Indian pals, all supercool in long shirts and cord trousers. The African guy shyly left his mates and walked over.

"Hello. How are you tonight?" My friend rolled her eyes at me in disgust. The "correct" chat-up line was either "Yo, baby!" or "Looking good, girl", lisped in a faux-Jamaican drawl. His politeness was bad enough. His Nigerian accent was the bitter end. Tammy sniffed the air around him. "Are you wearing aftershave?" she asked. He was. "Yeah, and I know what it's called - Jungle Fresh. Now piss off." I laughed along with her - but obviously, not too loudly, because I was white, which meant that I was racist by birth. Laughing at black people was OK only for other black people.

This week, I went to have a power-of-attorney document signed at the French consulate in London. I was impressed by the informality. You wander from room to room until you bump into the person you need to see; none of this "stand behind the line until called" atmosphere of American or British officialdom. I bumped into the notaire, who looked at my form.

"So you are coming to live near my home town, I see. Thank you. You English have pushed the prices up so much we can't buy our homes." The crowded waiting area went suddenly silent. "Yes, but we'll live there and integrate and contribute to the local economy." My daughter, wriggling on my lap, helpfully chimed in, "I'm going to school in France. Un . . . deux . . . trois . . . quatre . . ." to a chorus of "aah".

"OK," the woman said, but still seemed chilly.

In her office, she was warmer and incredibly helpful, promising to retype the document herself and personally ensure that all the legalities were completed in time.

"I'm excited to be sending my daughter to the local school," I said. "Yes," she sighed, "but don't expect the locals to be so excited, will you? We are not quite 'saturated' by the English, but almost . . ."

The word "saturated" made me think of David Blunkett's rhetoric on refugees in urban areas of the UK, of the Daily Mail's hate campaign against them, of the BNP.

Suddenly, I felt less like a (relatively) wealthy English immigrant with a lot to offer a community - and more like an unwanted asylum-seeker.