Article 50

Still nobody has a plan. Meanwhile the pound is now worth peanuts and not even a full packet at that. The one bonus is that at least all the impending doom has got more people interested in politics.

L has started writing her memoirs, basically documenting the unfolding chaos. She says it’s going to be her own ‘Politics for Thickos’ book. I hope she’s gracious with the royalties when they start flooding in.

She has purchased a book on basic politics to get her started but she knocked back my offer of the snappily titled ‘Politics for Dummies’ because she wasn’t sure she could sit and read it on the bus or the train or in the pub. All she’d have to do is wrap a copy of ’50 Shades’ around the outside of it if she wants to look normal. Daughter, however, has no such qualms and orders said book.

L's also activate the Facebook equivalent of Article 50 and she’s out, deactivated, gone and no longer friends with me or anybody for that matter. It’s all happening.

It's pub night with the old school chums today, I wonder if they’re in or out. One of each as it happens. The outer, who’s unemployed, will just have to put up with our doom mongering. Number 51, Mill Town Black Jack, lightens the mood a touch.

At Antibos later, I’m sure the 100% European staff are trying to disguise their accents or is it just me imagining it.

(Tuesday 28^th June)