From the point that Theresa May resigned, through the Tory Party Leadership race, the appointment of Boris Johnson as Prime Minister and finally the general election I have found it increasingly difficult to see any humour in Brexit, even for parody. Certainly there has been no inspiration for anything I could incorporate positively into my retirement life style, no celebration of anything great about Britain, just more and more examples of the slow decline in standards, integrity and honesty and
If you've read any of my earlier blogs you may remember that I am aiming for the post-Brexit good life, digging for victory and "growing my own" here at the Sticks. You could say I'm putting down many more roots on my little spot in Staffordshire!
For patriotic reasons (haha) I am growing good old traditional British veg: parsnips (originally Eurasian), potatoes (Peru), carrots (Persian) and beans, broad (near East) and runner (Central America) - but I can't give up that bit of post
Working had been getting in the way of my gardening. I really wanted to be free of work so I could do my own gardening and grow my own vegetables. No more dependence on those dictatorial supermarkets who charge what they want and decide what we should eat. What's not to like about that? Not only would I be free of supermarkets I would also save myself more than £50 a week in shopping bills.
Well, who'd 'a' thought it? Mrs May and I have something in common. Last week it was reported that she scraped the mould from the top of her jam and ate the rest. Well I did that too. Just after the New Year.
One of my jars of home made apple jam had developed a thin layer of mould. All the others were still OK. It was just the one, but I'd opened it, or rather my daughter's Californian boy friend had opened it. Judging by the howl of disgust and look of bemusement I don't think they must get
Since my last post on Rooted to the Spot I have written several articles but they were all turned down by my editor. He said they weren't sufficiently in the style of Brexit and had little to do with my retirement. I insisted that they couldn't be altered, that retirement was retirement and if he didn't like what I'd produced the deal was off. He'd have to make do with nothing.
My retirement in the style of Brexit is falling apart, which I suppose means it isn't, because Brexit is falling apart, so I think that proves I'm still succeeding in following it. Oh, I don't know! This is getting so confusing. When it's fallen apart will I have been successful or not? Who knew this was going to be so difficult? It should have all been so easy.
Retirement in the style of Brexit isn't working out quite as I'd hoped. At first I proceeded as though it would be easy. Back to the Good Life: rural calm, self sufficiency and tranquility for me. Sunlit uplands for the rest of my life. Ahh, it sounded so good.
To 'get behind Brexit' I forced myself to go along with the confidence of the Brexiters' arguments when they assured me that it was easy to secure an obligation free, low cost life full of benefits.
My retirement in the style of Brexit and the Brexiteers' vision of post Brexit trade have finally come together. In jam. Apple jam and pear jam to be precise. I'm not fond of jam, except occassionally spread thinly, very thinly, on toast. It has too much sugar and I like eating too much to waste calories on fruit flavoured sugar. Two small pots will last me a year at least. The webmaster doesn't eat any jam. At that rate we've already made enough to last me for the next 40 years (without
The kitchen at The Sticks has been busy processing its first batch of windfall apples this season. OK, so we didn't make jam, a proposed staple for our new post Brexit export economy, but our first preserve of the season has hit the jars. Apple chutney. What could be more British?
If we thought living off beans, to keep up with the cropping, was becoming tedious the volume of apples and pears is truely alarming.
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.
Independence. The good life. Growing our own food. What could be better? This is the dream, our perfect retirement in the style of Brexit, showing those doubters that The Sticks can stand on its own two feet when it comes to feeding itself. Who needs CAP and subsidies? Who needs imported food? We can manage without olive oil and bananas, orange juice or coffee. We've grown our own beans.
What better way to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon than reflecting the state of the nation through sport? Forget football, a restrictive team game with rules, over which we have no say, limiting the independence and personal sovereignty of our players. What we need is something with flexibility, balance and very few rules. Try slack-line walking and limbo dancing.
I've quietly let my proposal to grow bananas slip and hope no one notices. I've even stood in front of a mirror and practised keeping my face straight and deadly serious while denying I ever said it. I've taken my inspiration from leading Brexiters. After all if Nigel Farage can deny suggesting UK could be like Norway with all the TV footage proving the opposite I can deny suggesting I could grow bananas.
My husband is getting fed up with beans, although for now think I've calmed him down a bit, at least he is still cooking them every day. I've insisted he be patient and stop talking down the independence my retirement has brought us. I've assured him that the broad beans and runner beans we have planted will be much better than those we eat now.
I've only just realised a gapping hole in my "retirement in the style of Brexit" plan: I forgot to draw any red lines. The omission of the red lines surely undermines everything. How could I have been so remiss? I was so taken with striking out on my own, regaining my sovereignty, taking back control of my time, freeing myself from corporate rules and seizing the opportunity to negotiate my own deals that I completely overlooked them. And I'd told my husband everything else would carry on as
