London-Paris, via Syria. In a 7.am, non-slept daze in line at immigration at Kings Cross, I rolled into a tête-à-tête with a woman with the most incredible eyeliner, and the kind of large, bubble-set curls that have become a lost art. As we shared a quick synopsis of NHS covid apps and digital living, she mentioned that she was 65, and that as a child there was only one phone-for the whole street, of which they all shared. She had an open warmth that Brits just don’t have, and she clearly felt kinship with me when she asked, “are you Moroccan?”, to which I replied, “no, my father’s from Trinidad”. As she gestured and worded that it was something about my face shape, she told me she was from Syria. She was so very pretty. I told her how much I loved her eyeliner, and her hairdo. “I’ll tell you the story about my eyeliner”, she said as I showed my passport to the immigration officer. “When I was 21 I was engaged, but I had a big accident. While in hospital, the doctor said to my fiancé and I that I’d probably never walk again. My fiancé left me, and I was devastated. A girlfriend came to see me in the hospital. She painted eyeliner on my eyes and said: “you must wear this eyeliner every day for the rest of your life and you will never let a man make you cry ever again-because you will look like a raccoon”. I have been wearing eyeliner ever since”.