I don’t know if we can now regard ourselves as at the denial or bargaining stage of grieving, where the referendum and our upcoming Brfreefall are concerned. Over the weekend the papers (anyway, the ones I read) were full of stories about the impossibility of our ever triggering Clause 50, about the near-certainty of a parliamentary revolt, of a second referendum (best of three! as Nigel Farage was quick to point out), of a Scottish veto. The path to exit is seemingly strewn with obstacles, practical and psychic and moral. Brexit is a fiction. It can never happen. If we ignore it, it will just go away. Like cats, we ask insistently to go out until they open the door, and then we just sit and stare at it.
We are, evidently, in a state of shock. It is curious that events of national importance can have such a strong micro-impact on our daily lives and psychological well-being. It is, I suppose, a lingering tribal instinct. We somehow identify the nation with our social group. We are wired to care about blips in GDP, the value of the pound, beyond any economic logic. They are our markers. They tell us how we are doing.
And we are admittedly doing rather poorly at present. Rather than planning any sort of future, most of the major players have been reduced to panicked infighting. Never waste a good crisis, said Winston Churchill, and perhaps that is what they are all doing. Not wasting the crisis. And perhaps just as soon as the rest of us emerge from our deep slumbering trauma, pass from denial to anger, or from bargaining to depression, and on to a sort of furious acceptance, we can get on and not waste the crisis as well.