A cheeky Brexit story
The word “Brexit” conjures up a lot of different images for different people. We sat open-mouthed in bed in our ‘camping out flat’ glued to the TV for hours that morning.
Eventually I had to get up as I was going for some physio for my hip. Well, more precisely, my bum cheek. A muscle had been angered during our unpacking in April, and rather than it calming down, it had gradually become more and more angry until it was aggravating a nerve down my leg. It’s a bit like the bulge of long-term discontentment in the UK spilling over into a completely unrelated thing and causing eruptions somewhere else. (My knee represents our relationship with the EU in this flimsy analogy. But politics was never my strongest point.)
I expected to be given a piece or paper with some handy exercises on, but I wore my tracksuit just in case I had to actually do anything. But no – out came the the heating gel and some very deep massaging from a complete stranger. I was crying out in pain into my pillow: my butt was on FIRE and not in a good way…
“Why had Britain voted the way it had?” he wondered, as he paused, leaning his full weight onto a thumb-sized patch of pain. “Why had his South African mates been allowed to vote in London even though they didn’t understand what it was about and had been mostly partying for 2 years straight?”
As I attempted to answer these probing questions – HORRORS – he started piercing my bare cheek with needles!! My leg started twitching and tremoring just like the frog in biology lessons – we watched as the teacher stuck a pin in and a little webbed foot fluttered in response. But the frog didn’t have to simultaneously hold a conversation about mass migration, displacement, the Scottish referendum and UKIP. (Or “Puke-ip” as some friends call them).
So this will always be my Brexit image and I sincerely hope it isn’t yours now that I’m sharing it. Me, in a South African hospital, trying to explain how to recognise who Boris Johnson is if he should pop up on TV. Meanwhile three needles are trembling as they protrude from my left cheek. Thankfully, working for a church for years has served me well: up the other end, I had my ‘pretending this is normal’ face on.