Iwoke up tied to an idiot. No, not the BoyF – he’s away working in Italy – but Engerland, now imploding in a vortex of uncertainty and incompetence.
The Oxbridge buffoons in charge have legged it and are probably curled up somewhere (Provence, Tuscany?) in the foetal position, sobbing, “I’m sorry nanny, I didn’t know this would happen.”
Meanwhile, in the real world, the race to locate the passports is on as my pals rummage through the piles of stuff next to the kettle, in drawers, on shelves.
“We’re all going to live in Australia,” says one, only half joking. She passed the Kylie test years ago and has lived and worked there on and off. “I’ve got an Irish one too,” she throws in for good measure, “handy for Europe.”
Another is off on holiday, stung by the vote, and using her Spanish passport, while the BoyF dusts off his Australian papers. My children’s dad has a German passport. He’s been here for 40 years, worked, paid tax and national insurance, but kept a German passport, because, well he is. For the first time I think about his migrant status and in waiting for clarity from those in Westminster who got us into this mess, hear only an overwhelming, “Dunno.”
I realise what an international/European bunch my friends and family are, something that had only registered before when they displayed superior culinary and language skills, or shouted for a different footie team (and my wee Scotland fans have revelled in having another option).
So I say to Youngest Child, “What if you had to choose between a German and a British passport?”
“Don’t care. It’s all stupid,” she says.
“Yes but what if you want to travel or work in Europe? What if you need healthcare?”
“Why do we have to think about this now? I’m going skateboarding.”
“Because of Brexit. England voted to leave.”
“Soooooo stupid,” she says, eye-rolling for Scotland.
“Never mind,” says Middle Child, brightly. “This is an opportunity! Give it a couple of years and we’ll all have Scottish passports anyway.” n