4951/17871
Referendum day and it felt like God was on the side of Brexit as thunderstorms and floods lashed the Remain heartlands of London. I wondered if it might make a difference. But all indications were that the country was turning away from the insane gamble of leaving the EU, risking the loss of jobs, economic security and Scotland and Northern Ireland. The polls seemed to indicate that, but polls have been wrong. I hoped our country would look forwards, not backwards and help to make us a 21st Century state with a role to play in the shaping of Europe. Yet all our politicians seemed to look back, UKIP to an imaginary England of the 1950s, Labour to the seventies and eighties, the Conservatives to a clump of past in general and the Liberal Democrats to any time when they had any influence or relevance. Even if, as I was hoping the poll came out 55-45 in favour of Remain that still left an awful lot of people feeling unrepresented and angry. Anything could happen. And in London, at least, the sky Gods were venting their own frustration.
I voted at lunchtime. Things seemed busier than at the General Election and I scanned the fellow voters for signs of their intentions. But all I could do was vote with my pencil and hope that no one was going to rub out my vote. Though why anyone would go to the faff of using erasers when they could just counterfeit voting forms I don’t know. Apparently the pencils have a waxy lead that can’t be erased (and in any case no pencil it truly erasable anyway) and the danger of using a pen is that it will leave an inky smudge when you fold it, creating a ghost cross in the other box and invalidate your vote. But Brexit was readying the conspiracy theories in case, as seemed more likely if the bookies and pollsters were to be believed, they didn’t get the majority they craved.
I had a meeting about my alternative Universe sitcom. Foolishly I went out in my shirt with no jacket or umbrella. I set off in good time, but just missed my tube by seconds and minutes ticked away. Given I was going to talk about a script that referenced Sliding Doors a few times I was aware of the grim irony that I might be late because of being on the wrong side of the first train’s sliding doors. But finally another tube rolled up and I got on my way. As I walked through Hammersmith it was starting to drizzle and I regretted my sartorial confidence. And when I got to St James Park tube it was raining properly. I tried to walk through it but then the downpour became a bit Biblical. I ducked into a shop to shelter and they were selling umbrellas so I bought one and pushed on my way (any more delay and I would be late). The street had become a stream and the umbrella couldn’t save my jeans from being splashed and although I didn’t get as wet as I would have done with no cover, my arms and shirt sleeves were drenched when I got to Channel 4.
But I was on time at least, though wondering how many people had decided to stay in doors rather than use that opportunity to vote.
The meeting went OK. I have some work to do, but they want a second draft. They nearly always want a second draft. Nothing to get excited about yet.
Back home again, the rain having abated. I stopped in a Pret a Manger for a warming coffee. Something was wrong with their heating. It was much too warm in the cafe. Like some malevolent force was playing with us, refusing to make us comfortable.
I tidied my office more and then tried to get an early night. The polls had just closed and yougov was calling it 52-48 for Remain. But yougov also said that my fans are more left wing than Karl Marx’s and love eating humous. So I was sceptical. And something in the pit of my stomach was telling me that even though Boris and Nigel seemed to have conceded that defeat was likely that nothing was certain and exit polls are often wrong.
I tried to sleep.
