The first day of a new era. I’m feeling an odd sense of not-quite-euphoria, not because I think today’s brave new world of blinkered independence is a good thing, far from it.
It isn’t even necessarily of world significance either. Let’s not forget that we are a mere small island with an astonishing sense of entitlement and self importance, perpetuated by lumpen, aggressive, ignorant fools with warped, in fact fake perceptions of nostalgia, raging a virtual war against a nebulous undefined enemy who does not wish to compete. To everyone else in the world, we look like a comic side show.
Rather than euphoria, perhaps I mean relief. The battle for common sense was lost long ago, when this whole silly idea was dreamed up. I now don’t have to care about it anymore. The worst has happened. On social media the word ‘independence’ is working overtime. ‘Freedom’ is knocking about all over the place too. In ‘Me and Bobby McGee’, that crazy free range whisky-addicted Janis Joplin sang “freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose”. When I hear that line I picture a classic 1960s hippy couple sitting in a pickup truck, staring at the sunset, possibly on an unplanned road trip, an uncharted future awaiting them. To a great extent that nostalgic sentiment describes my sense of release too. I no longer feel any sense of duty or loyalty to this silly insignificant island cast adrift from mainland Europe. Subject to formalities of passports and visas, and practical language issues, I am free to create new roots anywhere else I choose. I don’t have any moral ties or commitments here, I just have emotional stability and habit, familiarity to keep me in one place.
In my own corner of reality, though, I’ve self-imposed a restriction of movement for the next several years. I am about to start working full time for real, saving regularly, with a view to eventually go elsewhere and reinvent. This time, though, I’ll do it with planning, hindsight, and with the knowledge of what can go wrong, and how vulnerable I am. I didn’t have any of that the first time round. So for the moment I will REMAIN in my grey flat with uneven floors, growing plants, painting walls, watching ships going up and down the river and out to sea.
Before air travel was accessible to most people Victoria station used to be seen as the gateway to continental travel, where boat-trains connected with overnight ferries to exotic lands, conveying dreams of intrigue, Agatha Christie, and sophistication. For many ordinary people a trip overseas would be a once in a lifetime occasion, the journey counted in days rather than hours, and as much a part of the experience. I prefer travelling by train and ferry to flying. I don’t go to many places though, at the moment. An aunt who lives in one of the south coast port towns was initially in favour of severing connections to the mainland, for reasons I chose not to enquire about.
Today the Orient Express still departs from here two evenings per week, but it must seem more like a corporate-expenses funded museum piece, crassly trying to recreate a past that we don’t understand. We don’t have the emotional skills to comprehend that notion of opulent romantic excitement of a world unknown. Everything is too familiar and now.
The large overhead lights have been switching on and off for the last hour. I guess they are as bemused as all of us.
Andrew Stevenson 