rootedatthesticks

The long hot summer is over but Brexit madness seems unabated. As the shear scale of what they have unleashed, and the complexities of what they assured us was simple, become clear, arch Brexiters are becoming more and more fanciful in their proposals. Despite their bravado their desparation is showing, they are grabbing at straws and throwing all caution to the wind in their blatant disregard of inconvenient facts. If it wasn't a cult before, it is now.

I continue to take solace in the beautiful surroundings of the North Staffordshire countryside and in my vegetable garden. I am now literally putting down roots with each new vegetable bed I construct  and I realise that I am tying myself ever more closely to this spot. Whatever happens with Brexit, I know I will not be leaving here. Cultivating beans, beetroots, tomatoes, squash and other edible crops is my hide away, away from the world outside my own boundary walls;  I do not need to leave my 10 mile radius to feel the soil and watch the plants grow while the buzzards soar overhead.

Once retired, my retirement quickly diverged from the style of Brexit. I had a plan and a budget which after nine months are still on course and I never tried to negotiate with my employer for the continuation of my employment benefits, I notice the gap but accepted that once I'd left they were ended; so nothing like Brexit chaos and its fanciful expectations of the EU.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to find inspiration from Brexit. The shambles of DExEU, the megalomaniac selfishness of the European Research Group (ERG), the blind determination of Mrs May to continue on an ideological campaign regardless of consequences and the mindless "we won get over it" letter writers to the local press are depressing. The make Britain Great has disappeared to be replaced with "it won't be the end of the world." No one can remain inspired by that however hard they try.  Nevertheless I am making one last effort to follow the Brexit lead. A final push for independence.

As the chances of a "no deal" outcome increase, threatening to turn the UK into an isolated, small island state with the theoretical trappings of independent sovereignty but in practice at the mercy of all the big sharks; as the government warn us of inadequate customs stations and loss of all existing trade agreements and to prepare emergency stockpiles of essential food and medicines, I have to go for the full "Good Life" experience. 

This is not just taking my retirement in the style of Brexit to the extreme; I know I am unlikely to achieve it completely - I will need tools and materials I cannot make myself - but to the extent I can make it work the Good Life will be my Brexit survival strategy.

Living in proud Brexitland, surrounded by the "you lost get over it" mob, I will certainly take a leaf out of their book and protect my borders. They tell me we have to look after our own first, that we don't want immigrants coming to take our jobs, that we don't want close union with our national neighbours because it undermines our control and sovereignty. Basically they are telling me sharing is bad, unless we get the most; that co-operation is unwanted unless we always get our way; they call me a mug, a traitor, a saboteur, a remoaner, too useless to stand on my own two feet.

My last Brexit inspired act will, therefore, be to refuse to share any of my home grown provisions with anyone other than my own family or to donate to any local causes which do not give back to me personally more than I donate. I will close my eyes to decline in local services and amenities and focus on my garden, on my little patch of land, which I am restoring to its former greatness. 

It doesn't make me feel better, it makes me feel sad and upset, it makes me feel small and defeated, but if you can't beat them you eventually join them. Bitter, selfish and the lowest common denominator. The Good Life indeed.

 

 

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