I’m British don’t eu know

On Thursday 23rd June, as a proud British citizen, I swaggered to my local polling station, chest pumped, arms outstretched, to cast my vote in the EU referendum.

I arrived and formed an orderly queue with myself so as not to offend anybody. I politely conversed with my fellow voters about the wet weather and commented that it was strange for this time of year – when clearly we all knew it was de rigueur. I read the wording on my polling card then pencilled a cross in the quadrangle of my choosing. I folded the card, placed it in the ballot box and wished the lady a pleasant evening; she returned the proposition as it’s what we do. I’d never met her before.

I wandered outside and wondered pensively about whether or not I had put a cross in the right box. Beset with worry, I went to see my local GP, an immigrant of European descent, yet the curtain fabric of our society nonetheless. He told me to pull myself together.

Worries aside, I headed home. For being all grown up (I’m 34) and casting my vote, I treated myself to a chippy tea: chips, pudding, peas and gravy. Us northerners just love gravy.

After a little siesta and back to back episodes of corrie, I went into the garden and gossiped over the fence with my neighbour about somebody else’s business. I could hear dads mowing the lawn and kids playing football in the distance, their jumpers for goalposts. “Hey Mr, can we have our ball back please?” was the shout when a penalty kick went amiss.

A cup of cocoa, and bedtime beckoned. I turned off the big light and said goodnight, God bless to anyone who cared to listen.

I awoke on Friday morning to the news. I laughed nervously. I cried a little. I dabbed away the tears from my face with a cold, wet BHS flannel I bought in the closing down sale. Democracy had spoken.

As a nation we have made a decision so I mustn’t complain. Instead I will make myself a nice cup of tea and wait for it all to blow over. Afterall, I’m British don’t eu know.

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