In a week, how everything changes. I had started to write something about the silver linings of Brexit, but then I lost my job and now I think any silver linings are massively overrated. I had a plan to point out the good things that were to be found lurking around the shadows of the sad old shitstorm Britain feels like it has become, like the fact that it was Eid last week and cause for celebration for a whole lot of lovely people. And there were two days off school, because our school has inset days set on Eid in a stroke of pragmatic brilliance because the Muslim kids probably wouldn’t turn up on Eid, and so Tuesday inset day was coupled with a teachers’ strike and it was all FUN CITY with a weekend stapled into the week. This should actually happen much more on a regular basis in real life, because then we could take our kids to the Natural History Museum and buy them stuff and drive around and consume and spend and pick raspberries and see friends and the economy may well improve, as would our relationships, fitness and eduction levels. But that is another topic for when I run the world.
So the other silver linings, which frankly I see now as grasping for straws, was that I thought the apparent political mobilisation of everyone was a good thing – because the referendum fallout continues to make everyone feel something; whether it makes you feel sad, angry, self-righteous, bored, depressed, worried or outraged, at least some kind of collective political cognisance has been injected into people. And it does feel good to be part of something bigger than you, although what a stupidly high cost to get there. All the debates and the Guardian columns and the pleas and the petitions and the marching – if only this level of interrogation had been thrown about before the Leave voters decided to flip the rest of the country the bird. And Westminster! Oh I wish I was Scottish right about now, and could claim that Nicola Sturgeon as my own – she’s another Aunty Helen.
Frankly, all of it would have been a brilliantly funny and quite ridiculous political satire show if it wasn’t all actually real.
Back To Silver Linings Though
The other silver linings are lovely little things like this:, the Michael Gove public ribbing which is mean and marvellous and lets ordinary people heckle and insult and make it funny, because if you aren’t laughing, you are weeping under a table somewhere, hugging your Polish friends close and remembering when you too were a European like them. The uncertainty about what Brexit means is just vile – it gets you up in the middle of the night to check that you remembered to make your kids NZ citizens as well at British passport holders because if Middle England gets it into its head to annex itself off from the Commonwealth too then you will be between countries, uncertain of welcome in either place.
And finally, the other thing that made me very happy was that I introduced my children to the ’80s cartoon Jem and The Holograms when I saw it spring up on Netflix, because I loved it when I was a chubster kid and I had lots of the dolls and knew all of the songs, so we rediscovered it together, although I was expecting them to shudder and cringe and tell me what terrible taste I must have had as a mulleted nine year old, but instead they too were enchanted by the utter magic of Jerrica and her mansion full of attractive tuneful orphans and now they are ripping through every episode and singing the theme tune all the time. And Ned has sidled up to me and asked me whether I still have the dolls so he could carry on the Hasbro plastic rockstar collecting legacy. And I thought how wonderful it is to have children to do this to.
So this was what I was going to write about, but now it feels like the pointless and desperate mutterings of the formerly employed. Because last Thursday I went to work, wrote my feature on a Nazi looted art hunter, and then got told that there was no more budget for freelancers and so thanks, but goodbye. And I was brave and tried not to cry in the office in front of the boss and so grabbed my stuff and went to pick up the children from school and only then did ugly face noisy crying for a bit outside the school gates. I spent a few days with a stone in my wizened, sad old heart and had blinky tears and told myself that yes, it is true – I am not much use to anyone from an employment perspective and moped BADLY. The boss mentioned Brexit as being a part of the reason why they are so nervous about the magazine’s budget and so I confess that now I feel Brexit voters are a tiny bit collectively culpable for my fun, useful and flexible job being taken away from me. This is probably unfair but this is no time for logical fairness analyses. Tis is a time for feeling a bit shit.
And then! Noah broke Casper’s hand last night by crushing it in the garden gate and we spent five hours in the A&E and now the poor kid cannot swim in Northern Cyprus. Instead he shall watch us frolic about in the turquoise water from a boat, all sweaty and itchy and sun-creamed and behatted in 40 degree heat, plastic bag-wrapped and probably deeply resentful. So it’s all going JUST SWIMMINGLY, thanks.
Here is a secret gig with Suggs from Madness and the Roxy Music sax guy at the Soho Food Feast last weekend. This was a bit of magic, an *actual* good thing:
And Casper in a suit, on the way to the Natural History Museum, for no reason at all, when his bones were all intact:
Suggestions for making his summer holiday bearable gratefully received.