I am in boho mode. When I wake up in the morning the first thing I see are a pair of brown legs. As I drowsily come too, I realise they are attached to me.
I am in a small corner of the EU that I know and love and feel I should be pretending that I am a cosmopolitan woman and not Breetish, for fear of being ridiculed.
Although I am not really British anymore per se, as I decamped and moved to Jersey around the time that Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson was bumbling around taking his degree in Oxford. However, I am very proud of my Yorkshire roots and can’t help wondering what the Brontë sisters might have said about the B Brexit shenanigans.
“I’m mortally sorry that you are not worth knocking down!” (Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights)
The British prime ministerial race has largely passed me by here, since drowning myself in Reguengos after outsider Rory Stewart got his boy band stool knocked out from underneath him.
Ahh, well I console myself watching the great sunset tonight and I will be another degree boho-er in the morning… with browner Yorkshire legs. Legs that are in no way mortally sorry that they love being a part of the EU.