It was then that a particularly political poodle friend, who I meet down in Hove Park, explained to me that we were pulling out of Europe. I immediately pointed out the practical difficulties of doing this. You can't just change Continents at will, I said, to begin with there are geographical constraints which would make it difficult. The poodle complemented me on my wit then said, to be serious, for a French dog like himeslef, Brexit was nothing short of a tragedy.
Well, I felt none the wiser; somehow we had voted for a recession and done something that would be tragic for all species inclined to be French. I then approached a husky, not a friend so much as a acquaintance, and asked him if the talk in his household had been fixated on Brexit as well. 'Good lord, yes,' came the reply. 'My people are thinking of emigrating. They say they feel European and no-ones going to stop them continuing to feel European.'
This seriously alarmed me. There had been no talk of emigrating in our household which meant I presume that once we pulled out of Europe we could end up anywhere, in the Pacific, perhaps, wearing grass skirts, or in Asia where they had restaurants which served dog meat. I too began to feel alarmed and when out in the park I was sure that the ground was grinding and shuddering, getting ready to pull away from it's Continental friends.
Then somehow the excitement died down. The Olympics got under way. The talk of recession receded, the alarm that had threatened the canine community in Hove Park became a thing forgotten, the Female's appetite for puting on the news every five minutes declined and boring but blissful everyday reality returned. 'What of Brexit?' I asked of my poodle friend. 'Oh that,' he sniffed as he cocked his leg, 'lets face it, it's not going to happen.' Thank goodness, I thought, I had no wish to end up on someone's menu.
