A very drunk young Irish guy politely shook my hand and introduced himself to me last night, as I was walking along, I say introduced but he gave no name! He rabbited on about in the most extreme jingoist terms about his full support for Brexit – assuming that we both felt the same. Then got round to asking if I agreed with him. I didn’t and before I even got going, wondered (out loud) how he could wax so lyrical (not) about “bloody immigrants” whilst, at the same time telling me that both of his parents were Irish nationals but he had emigrated and was British. He didn’t want to hear that (because “Ireland is different”) nor did he want to hear anything other than Britain could and should face the world alone, as, he spouted “they did in the war”. When I challenged that, he started shouting and walked off…but then scurried back and shook my hand again…
I am seriously angst-ing about Brexit…wonder if the forthcoming referendum will echo the miners’ strike when families and communities were forever divided by opposing viewpoints.
But naturally this is not the only thing on my list of concerns. As I move further away (in time not memory) from the betrayals that led to the breakup of my marriage. I ponder that I am not dead yet, and look around me wondering how a breast-free future with a very poor shelf life, pans out in terms of any potential partnership. Who in the world would be brave enough to love me and who would I ever trust enough to love? Two years of therapy and counting…
…and, for a final nail in the coffin (as it were) weather forecast in Sound of Music-land is thunderstormy and wet…very wet, heavy showers in fact. I am told (in a roundabout kinda way) by “frockfrolics” that this could be in keeping with the mission