In the final hours of being in Europe
🔹Last night we went to see the Sam Mendes film ‘1917’, which despite its mesmeric hard focus on the details of the 1914-18 war, told us something about Britain in the early 20th Century.
And at 11pm tonight (midnight Brussels time) a similar battle begins, for the soul of the 21st Century.
Young citizens will embark on a new national struggle to find out where Britain is exactly and what, if anything, is worth the effort.
The Morning Star sees Brexit as a great opportunity to protect jobs and rights.
“Insourcing” is the keyword.
Others see our withdrawal in another way entirely.
Fintan O’Toole doesn’t believe that Britain as a nation even exists (or ever really did), in which case what happens after tonight is an exercise in wish fulfillment.
Building reality from myth is the mission, should you be willing to accept it.
🔹Yesterday Jane read out a piece of verse she’d seen online, by Roger McGough, I think.
It was a clever bit of wordplay called ‘Staying In’.
The poem stated both the author’s intention to spend 31 January not at a celebratory Brexit street party but at home, plus the sad regret that Britain wasn’t “staying in” the European Union.
I did a web search but couldn’t find it. Then I found it on Facebook and took a screenshot.
🔹I popped into Headway for an hour this morning, which is always nice because the Friday members rank as some of my favourites.
AD said my new convict haircut makes me look younger. She hugged me tightly and smeared her face make-up all over my glasses.
Then she leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Who are you, again?”
I was at Headway because yesterday I accidentally pocketed Chris’s phone and agreed via email to drop it off this morning.
His very loud wake-up alarm went off at 7am.
I got there and the studio was empty. I had a cup of tea and did a bit of stitch art with gold thread.
Then the studio started to fill up so I thought it best to exit.
As I did, I couldn’t find my stick. I hunted everywhere in a panic (it was the expensive one with the gold tip Jane bought me for Christmas one year), then found it hanging on the edge of the oil-paint tray.
All was well. Phew!