Jim.’
Jim can stand there for hours, days, weeks on end, in the process of Leaving. I admire his persistence.
‘Are you looking forward to Leaving, Jim?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Why’s that, Jim? Is it the prospect of freedom? The journey into the unknown? The horizons of expectation which you can push back, finding endless potentiality within yourself and your fellow Leavers?’
‘No, it’s the weather, Border.’
‘The weather?’
‘It’s going to be sunny when I’ve Left, Border.’
‘Sunny uplands?’
‘Yes, Border, that’s it, I think. Sundry uphills.’
‘Sunny uplands, Jim. When you Leave there will be sunny uplands.’
‘That’s it. I’m Leaving for sunken funlands.’
‘Ok, Jim.’
Time for Jim to get into a telephone box and put on the Brexitman suit that Jean knitted for him.
Croissants and Pasties
I saw Jean hurrying towards me one evening in an awful rush, with the wee dog being dragged along behind her on the lead, bouncing off the footpath with the eyes bulging and the claws click-clacketing on the tarmac. Jean was fairly panting by the time she got to me, and the wee dog was disgusted with life.
‘Border,’ she says.
‘I’m here, Jean.’
‘I know that,’ says Jean. ‘Oh, I haven’t a breath on me, Border.’
‘Is something wrong, Jean? Is Strabane vanished again?’
‘No. No, Border, that was fog. No, I was watching the news there and was just about to put the wee dog’s dinner in front of it …’
I looked at the wee dog. The wee dog definitely remembered the dinner not actually getting to the front of it.
‘… and the man on the news said there’s a delegation from the EU coming to visit you tomorrow.’
‘There’s never a day goes by but some lad in a suit comes along and gets his picture taken beside me, pointing, or standing with one foot either side of me. And I never look up, Jean, I never look up.’
‘I know, Border, and you are to be praised for your restraint. But that man on the news said that tomorrow it’s Monsieur Barnier.’
‘Well, now, amn’t I glad I got my grass cut this week, Jean? And sure, by tomorrow afternoon I can do a good trim and tidy and be ready. It’s a big deal, all the same.’
‘But, Border, the man on the news said Monsieur Barnier is coming for a “working breakfast”.’
There was a silence. I looked at Jean. She looked at me. The wee dog looked at Jean. And then at me. And me and Jean said together:
‘CROISSANTS!’
‘Jean, where in the name of hell and all that’s holy are we going to get croissants for Michel Barnier’s breakfast? It’s 7.13pm the night before he arrives and we’re standing in a field outside Muff.’
‘That’s a fair question, Border. The good shops are shut. The shops that are open are croissant-free zones. We could get a sliced pan handily enough in a petrol station.’
‘Jean, if I give Michel Barnier toasted sliced pan and peanut butter for breakfast he’ll have customs posts on me before he’s back in Brussels. And who would blame him?’
‘Woof.’
‘What’s she saying, Jean?’
‘Woof woof woof woof woof woof.’
‘The wee dog says she’ll go and find a breakfast suitable for the EU’s Chief Brexit Negotiator and his team.’
The wee dog was going round in circles now. ‘Off you go, wee dog,’ I said, ‘find some exquisite pastries. Also, freshly squeezed orange juice. And probably muesli.’ And off she scampered.
Jean went home and I settled down for the night, but I knew I’d not sleep. I was worrying about becoming a hard border. I was worried about meeting Barnier and having to make my case to him and to remember all that stuff about tariffs and checks. I had to remember to ask him about the SPS, and to plead with him that I not end up too proximate to chickens or the internal workings of ruminants. Most of all, I was worried about the croissants. I felt that my future probably depended on the croissants.
At about eleven I heard the distinctive lolloping of Jean’s wee dog, its name tag rattling as it ran, its ears pinned back in the bordery wind as it tore towards me – with a blue plastic shopping bag in its mouth. Thon’s some mutt, I thought to myself, though as she got closer I began to feel a little sceptical about the shape of the bag. Still, I thought, croissants in Muff near midnight. That would be a miracle. Miracles are in short supply where Brexit is concerned, as you may have noticed yourself. ‘Grand job, wee dog. Tip out the croissants there,’ I said, ‘til we have an inspection.’ The dog tipped up the bag. Custard Creams. Bourbons. Jammie Dodgers. And all of them, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit slobbery.
I looked at the wee dog. She was delighted with herself. ‘Is this what you got me for the breakfast, wee dog?’
She assented, in a wee doggy way. ‘Wee dog, I am grateful for your help, truly I am. But this is not a breakfast fit for the EU’s Chief Brexit Negotiator. He’s a man of sophisticated tastes. Leaving aside the canine saliva in which they are marinated, the contents of a box of Family Circle biscuits are not how he would choose to begin his day, and I need him to be in a good mood, otherwise it’s physical infrastructure for me and rabies injections for you [technically this wasn’t true but I had to put the frighteners on the mutt]. Did you just go home and steal these biscuits from Jean’s cupboard?’ The wee dog said nothing. ‘Wee dog, please take these back and, if you can, find me some croissants. They’re like puff pastry things.’ The dog went off, a bit more slowly than before and I felt that my hopes of putting on an impressive continental breakfast had probably gone with it.
I must have fallen asleep for a while. I dreamt that David Davis was dressed in a devil costume and riding around on a souped-up lawnmower trying to find me so he could cut my grass. And some time, probably around midnight, was when it must have happened. I’m not proud of this, dear reader, but you must understand it was an accident. Somewhere, along the length of me, and I’m a bit hazy on the details, a lorry ‘shed its load’, as they say on the radio, and the load was, I believe, kegs of beer. I woke up with a start and a surprise and I was, I think it is fair to say, absolutely plastered.
I do not recall much of the rest of the evening. I know the wee dog came back
