He had a brown plastic and faux metal contraption next to his bed for months. He would tweak and test and turn and try to concoct the perfect prandial blend of tea. But the Teasmade is not the most potent symbol of my dad's lifelong obsession with tea, which has never waned or dulled with time or circumstance.

I remember with great vividness the big fella going to great lengths to procure a catering-size tin of Lipton's Green Label Tea when we were holidaying in the Punjab. Lovingly, carefully, jealously, he wrapped the large green drum of tea in his clothing to protect its precious contents on the journey back to Scotland. He spoke of little else on the return journey but his anticipation to get back to Glasgow and have a cuppa that reminded him of home, of the Punjab.

In those days the journey back was the best part of a day and we arrived back in Bishopbriggs, shadows of the shadows of the men we used to be.

But dad sprang to life and set the kettle boiling. Meanwhile, he unwrapped his Lipton's Green Label and prepared a pot for warming. He completed his ceremonies by clock-watching to ensure the required minutes of brewing had elapsed. I remember the look of utter disappointment as he sipped what he expected to be nectar. It wasn't as it should have been. He had failed to factor in that water in Scotland was different to water in the Punjab. He was momentarily dejected before reminding himself that a cup of tea is, after all, a cup of tea.

After all these years, am I still coloured by prejudice?

On my way to work the other day I heard a contretemps. In a big city one is never sure if raised voices are kids' high jinks, an act of road rage or a moment of genuine aggression. This was a moment of genuine aggression.

A young track-suited teenager, not much more than a kid, fronted up a skinny shirt-sleeved older man. From the scene it soon became clear that the shirted man was a mini-cab driver whose cab sat badly parked, hurriedly stopped, his door still open. The kid was shouting and pushing, pushing and shouting. I assumed the smaller cab driver would realise his position of inferiority and let the situation die. But he stood his ground, not batting an eyelid.

The teenager became noisier and more aggressive before lashing out at the older man. The street stood still and watched on. The teenager towered over the man waiting for another moment to hit; inevitably he did before dancing backwards. It was truly surreal. We hear reports of violence in society all the time; we hear about it but rarely witness it at such close quarters. I grew up in Glasgow, No Mean City, and I rarely saw a fight. As I watched, I was absolutely sure that I knew who was right and who was wrong in the scenario that was unfolding before me. For me the track-suited teenager was clearly the aggressor, he was the culpable party; the shirt-sleeved older man was the wronged party.

Now let me share with you some crucial pieces of information: the teenager was a black boy, the mini cab driver was of Indian origin. I had no idea what had happened prior to the confrontation I witnessed, what other blows had been struck or wrongs committed. I was forced to ask myself whether I had come to my conclusions based on intuition, a reading of the situation, experience of life or simple prejudice? To be honest with you, I'm not sure. I'm troubled by the thought that I, having suffered racism and prejudice for much of my life, could so easily, so readily fall into the same lazy prejudices myself.

Back in the USSR

When you think of the Ukraine do you think extreme winters, harsh winds and snow? Me too. So imagine my surprise when I alighted from the plane last week to be embraced by Mediterranean temperatures in the mid-thirties and a sky full of sun.

The culture shock was completed by the fact that the Ukraine is still very much a smoker's country. A lung full of nicotine as I left the terminal building reminded me how much I haven't missed life before the smoking ban.

It is safe to say that Kiev is not what I expected. I'm here to make a Radio 3 feature about the humorist and writer Gogol. I have to confess that Kiev is a place I would never have visited in the ordinary run of things and consequently a place I know very little about. We in the West know very little of the independent histories of countries such as Ukraine, Belarus and Uzbekistan, subsumed as they were for so many years by the Soviet behemoth. If you don't have any idea where Ukraine, Belarus, Uzbekistan and the other former nations of the USSR are, then don't worry too much: the way things are going they'll all soon be part of Russia again.

Terminally addicted to technology

Technology is meant to liberate us, free us, unfetter us. As I sit in Terminal 5 in gate 39B, surely the most modern, technologically advanced departure lounge and airport in the world, I am astonished to see human beings huddled on the floor or sitting cross legged by pillars or slumped against walls. There is no shortage of seats; a sea of functional black seating lies empty and unmolested. These floor-lovers are attached to the wall, connected by the umbilical cord of laptops, games consoles or phone chargers. Powerless they are unable to stray much further than a few feet from their three-pinned god of charge. It seems slightly ridiculous that when surrounded by such architectural modernity, we are only as free as the length of our charger cables.