It’s been a strange time since July. Unsettling. There seems to be clouds surrounding me, the sun wants to come out but it’s hidden away by millions of droplets of information, misinformation, negotiations, empty statements. I am merely one of millions of little pawns that live here but were born there. Negotatiors can’t show their cards, tell us about the next move. In this global chess game, our rights to live in this country are carrots and sticks. In this game of realpolitik, never I have felt so surrounded by mist.

As I get older, will the doctor see me when I am sick if my name is spelt with an h? If I was born on the other side of the Channel. If my accent is not quite right. If my ways are a bit different? I’ve contributed, paid my taxes, I help a tiny bit in my local community. Counted for nothing when it was time to vote, 35 years in this country, and nothing. Equally, the Brits who have lived abroad for more than 10 years, lawfully, still British, forbidden to express themselves. Strange.

The mist will lift, and it is only fair that none of us know what will hide in the green Vale below. Heaven forbid we may know what the future holds. Will the fields still be green? Will it still be a pleasant land?