Real life | 4 April 2019

After all that waiting and arguing, I must say I thoroughly enjoyed leaving the EU.

The builder boyfriend and I celebrated by popping the cork on a bottle of Denbies bubbly and flying his old yacht’s backstay union flag in the dining room window, which saves me buying curtains.

The builder b drank the Dorking bubbly. I’m teetotal so I stick to fizzy water. I don’t anticipate any problems getting Perrier or San Pellegrino in the coming months but there’s always Highland Spring. Of course, if Scotland gets antsy and imposes a blockade, I will have to invest in a carbonation machine. It’s a small price to pay for freedom.

I know what you’re thinking: how come the builder b and I got to leave the EU last Friday when the rest of Britain remained locked in a nightmarish farce of Remainer MPs and a few demi-Brexiteers tearing each other to shreds over a series of faux Brexit options, none of which was remotely what 17.4 million people voted for in the referendum because every one of those ordinary Brits has more brains and backbone than that trembling, knock-kneed, lily-livered mass of MPs put together.

It was simple. In a blinding flash, the builder b and I realised that all we had to do to leave was leave. And on the date initially set for our exit, 11 p.m. on 29 March. The goings on in parliament, soon to be known as the Great Hall of The People, were completely irrelevant. The EU held no moral authority over us.

We’re out. As far as we’re concerned, the onus is on the People’s Parliament to work out how it can make us adhere to its bonkers EU vision. That’s its problem. We’ve gone, mate.