Existential issues

I know it’s cold even before I step outside because of the mist hanging over the river. A clash of two weather types – the extraordinary spring-like warmth of the weekend mixing with the return/arrival of winter. The clouds are bluey-grey washed over with a delicate blood red. A moody start to the working week which chimes with the times for tomorrow the UK parliament will vote on whether to accept the agreement negotiated by the government with the European Union which sets the terms of our leaving the EU on 29 March. It is, according to commentators, the most important vote since the end of the Second World War in 1945. The problem is that parliament is fundamentally split on what to do, while the country at large is fundamentally split on whether to leave or not. Since we voted for Brexit, as this whole process is known, in June 2016 we have, as they say, been living in ‘interesting’ times, though even the most ardent supporter of either point-of-view is surely sick fed up of them (we started tuning in to the BBC World Service several months ago so as to hear more global, rather than purely domestic, stories of man’s inhumanity to man).

I’ve got news for you, my husband said seriously on his return from a run yesterday. But did I detect a hint of smugness? Whatever it was trumped the fact that he’d turned over his ankle while examining in passing a drain newly put in near the top fields, which caused him not to notice the bumpy, pitted mud created by the digger out of the road. No, what he really wanted to talk about was the little deer. I’m sorry to have to tell you, he continued, metaphorically placing a hand on my arm, but I don’t think it’s a girl. Really? This was devastating. Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s got an appendage. My husband had dealt the killer blow.

It’s a boy!

Like a pregnant mother looking at the first scan, there’s no arguing with an appendage and I confirmed it myself later that day. There was never any particular reason why I thought he was a she. I merely outrageously and unreasonably equated qualities of beauty and delicacy with femininity. This was not just judging the deer as if he were human, but doing so on an entirely sexist basis. Guilty as charged, m’lud. I confess I was momentarily discombobulated, my feelings towards him undergoing a transformation aided by the fact that he is, of course, growing bigger with the passing weeks. I cannot justify it for a moment, but I feel slightly less affinity with the deer now (though I myself make no claims on the delicate or the beautiful).

But I’ll get over it. The vote tomorrow is another matter. Depending on what happens, I and many millions will be either elated or devastated. Alas, if it goes the other way, so will millions of others. That will not be easily shrugged off, for Brexit is not ultimately about whether we leave a large trading bloc or not; it is about who we believe ourselves to be. And that, like the little deer’s gender, is not yet up for negotiation. Sadly, I predict tears before bedtime, if not tomorrow, then soon.