All I want for Christmas is a break from Brexit.
To be able to turn on the phone, computer, radio, light switch, washing machine even, and not feel that familiar tug of exasperation and anxiety that mention of that bugger of a thing invariably brings on.
Time has moved on from the absolute shock and awe of that original vote in June 2016, but we’re still struggling frantically with what is the best approach to adopt when you’re next-door neighbour turns completely coco jambos — fighting all round with the other residents on the street and then blaming you for trying to make sure the residents’ association withstands the lunacy of it all. Sigh.
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