As if the Brexit soap opera wasn’t taking a dark enough turn, he’s been appearing in my dreams every night recently. A bit like the Madonna appearing to the three shepherd children of Fatima – carrying bad news – but with a beard and glasses. The little steps my conscious mind does to let him go, my subconscious throws them out of the window. And so there he was, arm in arm with his mother, pointing to her as to say – this stuff is better than you. Then he was, mysteriously, the boyfriend of my work colleague and they lived in my parents’ flat in a small town near the sea. I didn’t really have a place in all this. I just sort of jumped around, filled with anguish and anxiety as I unsuccessfully tried to have his attention. I guess I’m finally beginning to process this whole situation. I just hope I’m not going to dream him again, this time arm in arm with Theresa May, drinking champagne and telling me they’re doing Brexit but I’m not invited. Personal nightmares fade into the national nightmare and I really wish I could wake up and they have both magically disappeared.