I’ve had my moments of feeling glum. Days on end of metallic grey skies don’t help. I endeavour-not entirely successfully- to avoid going into meltdown over the current grim state of British politics. Towards the end of January, it’s a real challenge. The deadline for Brexit is at hand. A trusted family friend makes an insensitive and over-simplistic comment along the lines that it's an unquestionable gain.
I lose great respect for him. It puts me into an oppressive funk during the whole of Exit day. It takes me to the evening and a brief meditation session for it to lift.
Whilst Brexiteers jubilate in the streets, Remainers resign to the new reality; some more philosophical than others.
Living in France with a British passport, I have the very real consideration of my as now ambiguous citizenship weighing on my mind.
I’ve applied for a short term residence permit and await the results. The Consulate is no doubt snowed under.
And the beat goes on. Despite my anxiety, mercifully I have not had the bout of consuming S.A.D I’ve been expecting. I literally can’t afford to sit around moping. There are jobs to find, blogs to update, places to go and people to see.
January has not been the slow and quiet return to business as normal that I thought it would be. A myriad of self-imposed tasks and distractions eat into the time I set aside for self-development. A musical retrospective of the 2010s on which I’ve been working for months. A worthy and stimulating interview arranged with a restaurateur chum.
Nevertheless, I persevere with my routine as much as I can.
On the 1 February, the first official day of being a non-EU citizen, I attend the 40th birthday celebrations of church friend, Celina. It's an 8pm start, according to the slick invitations. I give myself half an hour grace, not wanting to be rattling around an empty hall waiting for other guests to show up.
I spot Celina's husband, Angelo, outside the venue on arrival. I'm assuming it's fully underway. How naive. The hall is still all but deserted. I gravitate towards Raymond, the first familiar face I see. He's in full conversation with an unknown guest. I feel self-conscious. I notice some other church acquaintances across the hall. Raymond mentions he's based at this other table. I take the hint with gratitude and switch. The DJ is spinning some choice R&B and Hip-Hop from yesteryear. I bounce along without compunction. It's a shame there's hardly anyone around to dance. The birthday girl isn't even on the scene.
Oh, I'm used to it. Raymond brushes off my concern.
I'm not, even now.
It's coming up to 11pm. Another church acquaintance, Eva and I have infrequent buses to catch. We consider leaving without any grub.
After a brief speech (in which Celina admits the party was more her husband's idea), dinner is finally served. It's dished out by slack-jawed and half-attentive adolescents. To the amusement of my fellow guests, I pack my plate. It smells better than it tastes. Whether or not this is an accurate representation of traditional Lusophone African cuisine, I can't say. I hope not. Everything is either bland or seems to be suffused with fish, even when it's not compatible. I feel like gagging part way through. I cut my losses after unsuccessfully trying to minimise the waste. Another guest helps herself to an uneaten kebab. No objection from me.
Eva and I make our exit, not before another group photo is taken.
Soundtrack: The Free Nationals + Soulgliding compiled by Trueby Rainer.
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