Rory Stewart: How will Brexit be remembered when my son gets to my age?

I still live in the same house, in London, in which I lived as a baby. I walk my five-year-old son every morning to the same school, on the same route that I took 43 years ago, holding my father’s hand. We sing Gilbert and Sullivan in the same bedroom. I am whacked with a sword in the same garden square in which I once whacked my father. And the picture of me in red velvet knickerbockers can be superimposed over the picture of my son in his Batman costume — each of us seated at the same corner of the same dining room, peering gloomily at the two candles on our birthday cake.

What will London look like when my son is the age I am now? His great grandmother was born in this same street in 1912 — they put straw down then so that the horses’ hooves wouldn’t wake the baby.