Saturday night we ate outside next to the floodlit rock face. Four adult guests came puffing up the path and one child, George, celebrating his 11th birthday. A string of low-wattage coloured bulbs hung above our heads. Chicken curry. Dahl. Pink wine. Yellow champagne. Little brass oil lamps on the table. John Mayall & the Bluesbreakers — trite lyrics, sublime guitar — for the birthday playlist. A cream-filled birthday cake in the fridge awaited the right moment.
Dominic Cummings was all the rage that day and every one of our adult guests was an ardent Remainer. As passionately tribal in their globalist philosophy as football fans, they’d gone into confinement three-nil down with ten minutes to go in the semi-final replay, and now, after an astonishing hat trick of own goals by left-back Baldy Pevsner, and roared on by a partisan crowd, they scented a last-minute historic victory. They managed to contain themselves until about the third glass and once the subject was broached there was no stopping them.
I’m probably the only Leaver they know.
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