I have missed Britain daily since moving to Australia nine years ago. A physical ache. There has not been one moment that I haven’t been happy, uplifted, to think of myself as British, and, by extension European.
I didn’t want Australian citizenship. I was happy to remain a permanent resident of Australia because I didn’t want another country to belong to. I had a good one. And I wanted to remain – above all else – part of Britain and Europe. It was important to me. It was who I am.
Not so important that you didn’t ditch it for another country when an opportunity came along?
But on Friday, those feelings changed. I realised that although I had loved Britain, I had never really known it.
Right. Of course.
As a child of London and the south-east, I may as well have come from Mars, such was my total inability to fathom the choice of 52% of the population in the EU referendum. I still can’t.
Jeez, could you be any more overdramatic? You aren’t the majority opinion, nestled in your little world of progressive MSM groupthink. The rest of the country doesn’t live like you or think like you.
How could that come as such a surprise?
As well as the wider sense of loss, I have felt more acute heartbreak. A longtime friend of mine, born and raised in Britain, was called “scum” by a taxi driver in London on Monday after she spoke to her children in Greek and Italian during their journey.
I guess Australia still relies on news brought in by steamer and bush telegraph, if somehow these terrible, awful crimes somehow missed you by. I mean, how else to explain your focus on one small (may have never happened) incident as the most terrible, awful thing in existance?