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I wander into my local corner shop, in need of supplies to stave off my fever. The proprietor, head wrapped in a turban, smiles at me like he always does. Indeed, this time he grins at me through his neat grey beard. “Long time no see,” he enthuses, welcoming me like a long-lost friend.

But we’re about to discover that there are limits to this friendship, for my kids arrive a couple of minutes later. Then my daughter, her own head wrapped loosely in a headscarf, collides with me, complaining that her brother chose the goodies she had been intending to buy. She hates copycats.

No matter, I tell them to choose something different for when we break our fast four hours from now. At the till there’s a little commotion, when we discover their chosen treats are not vegetarian. We back and forth a couple of times in pursuit of an alternative. The cashier is friendly, but the other chap? No, his face has changed.

It seems we’ve tested the limits of our friendship, appearing with beige children at my side. It seems I’ve transformed from non-descript gora, to be treated with kindness, to suspect chap, presumed to have a South Asian wife. Actually such assumptions are way off the mark. But perhaps it’s even worse: perhaps I am, in fact, a Muslim.

Leaving the shop, his belated reaction troubles me. It bothers me all the way home, as the kids squabble and bicker behind me. One false move, and you’re out on your ear. These are the limits of these diverse relationships. Sometimes prejudice is capable of killing a fond friendship in a mere instant. One moment I’m worthy of a kind word, the next only of an averted gaze.