‘A EUffalo? What’s a EUffalo?’
‘A EUffalo? Why, didn’t you know?
It has a flag and a customs union.
(It nearly had a constitution)’
‘Where are you meeting it?’
‘Here by this hay.
And its favourite food is pickled May.’
‘Aw, that’s nice, Jean. The nephews’ll love it.’
‘I’d say so, Border. Isn’t it a grand evening, now?’
‘I’ve always specialised in sunsets, Jean.’
‘That you have … Do you think you’ll do grand sunsets after Brexit, Border?’
‘I will, Jean. But maybe for a while, not so …’
‘Luminescent, Border?’
‘Not so luminescent, Jean. Not for a while.’
‘Goodnight, Border.’
‘Goodnight, Jean.’
‘Woof.’
‘Night night, wee dog.’
Off she went. And the wee dog. And silence descended.
Some night you should come here, lay yourself down beside me and put your ear to the sod. Then you can listen quietly to the voices of the things that are buried, shallow and deep, within me, and you will learn from the yarns they spin, and the sadnesses they recall, and the wisdom they speak. Then, if you don’t know it already, you’ll see why I’m so pissed off with Rupert and his Brexit.
RADIO BORDER
192.1FM
Today at 5pm:
If a seagull sh*ts on you is it a Brexit thing?
How to train your Leaver
‘Yer Head’s Cut’ – Jean’s advice column
Still Here, Jim?
Jim was still here. Where else would he be, I suppose? He had nowhere to Leave to, no hidden Leaving skills that he had suddenly unleashed, no map which would take him on the path to Leaving. No, Jim’s Leaving now involved being very unLeft.
‘Border.’
‘Jim.’
‘This is quite boring, isn’t it?’
‘…’
‘Did you ever hear tell of a lad called Samuel Beckett, Border?’
‘Oh aye. Went to school round here. Quiet lad. Why do you ask?’
‘It passes the time, Border.’
‘It would have passed anyway, Jim.’
‘…’
‘Still Leaving, Jim?’
‘Still Leaving, Border.’
‘Ok, Jim.’
Jim can stand there for hours, days, weeks on end, in the process of Leaving. I admire his persistence.
‘Are you looking forward to Leaving, Jim?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Why’s that, Jim? Is it the prospect of freedom? The journey into the unknown? The horizons of expectation which you can push back, finding endless potentiality within yourself and your fellow Leavers?’
‘No, it’s the weather, Border.’
‘The weather?’
‘It’s going to be sunny when I’ve Left, Border.’
‘Sunny uplands?’
‘Yes, Border, that’s it, I think. Sundry uphills.’
‘Sunny uplands, Jim. When you Leave there will be sunny uplands.’
‘That’s it. I’m Leaving for sunken funlands.’
‘Ok, Jim.’
Time for Jim to get into a telephone box and put on the Brexitman suit that Jean knitted for him.
Croissants and Pasties
I saw Jean hurrying towards me one evening in an awful rush, with the wee dog being dragged along behind her on the lead, bouncing off the footpath with the eyes bulging and the claws click-clacketing on the tarmac. Jean was fairly panting by the time she got to me, and the wee dog was disgusted with life.
‘Border,’ she says.
‘I’m here, Jean.’
‘I know that,’ says Jean. ‘Oh, I haven’t a breath on me, Border.’
‘Is something wrong, Jean? Is Strabane vanished again?’
‘No. No, Border, that was fog. No, I was watching the news there and was just about to put the wee dog’s dinner in front of it …’
I looked at the wee dog. The wee dog definitely remembered the dinner not actually getting to the front of it.
‘… and the man on the news said there’s a delegation from the EU coming to visit you tomorrow.’
‘There’s never a day goes by but some lad in a suit comes along and gets his picture taken beside me, pointing, or standing with one foot either side of me. And I never look up, Jean, I never look up.’
‘I know, Border, and you are to be praised for your restraint. But that man on the news said that tomorrow it’s Monsieur Barnier.’
‘Well, now, amn’t I glad I got my grass cut this week, Jean? And sure, by tomorrow afternoon I can do a good trim and tidy and be ready. It’s a big deal, all the same.’
‘But, Border, the man on the news said Monsieur Barnier is coming for a “working breakfast”.’
There was a silence. I looked at Jean. She looked at me. The wee dog looked at Jean. And then at me. And me and Jean said together:
‘CROISSANTS!’
‘Jean, where in the name of hell and all that’s holy are we going to get croissants for Michel Barnier’s breakfast? It’s 7.13pm the night before he arrives and we’re standing in a field outside Muff.’
‘That’s a fair question, Border. The good shops are shut. The shops that are open are croissant-free zones. We could get a sliced pan handily enough in a petrol station.’
‘Jean, if I give Michel Barnier toasted sliced pan and peanut butter for breakfast he’ll have customs posts on me before he’s back in Brussels. And who would blame him?’
‘Woof.’
‘What’s she saying, Jean?’
‘Woof woof woof woof woof woof.’
‘The wee dog says she’ll go and find a breakfast suitable for the EU’s Chief Brexit Negotiator and his team.’
The wee dog was going round in circles now. ‘Off you go, wee dog,’ I said, ‘find some exquisite pastries. Also, freshly squeezed orange juice. And probably muesli.’ And off she scampered.