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Aka - Brexit is Silly

Stonehenge. Probably one of my top three favourite ‘henges’.

Stonehenge. Probably one of my top three favourite ‘henges’.

We’re on our way to Center Parks for my brother’s surprise fortieth birthday.  I’m driving, Zsuzsa and her belly full of baby are sitting in the passenger seat, and Mila is stubbornly refusing to sleep in the back.  I glance at my wife and catch her gazing out of the window, deep in thought, miles away.  No doubt contemplating the future and likely plotting intricate ways to mend this broken planet of ours.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

There’s a pause as Zsuzsa attempts to articulate her complex thoughts as best she can, and in a manner that mere mortals such as I could easily comprehend.

“I was just thinking that…honey roast carrots are delicious.”


“Why?  What were you thinking about?”

Now it’s my turn to gaze out of the window, towards the horizon, in to the distant future, although, in reality I am staring at a roadside Londis.

“I’m just wondering, are we crazy?”

“Why would we be crazy?” replies Zsuzsa with furrowed brow.

“Moving back to Budapest, packing up our lives yet again, ripping Mila out of nursery.  And all just before Brexit.”

“We’ll be back before you know it.”

“But just before Brexit!  What if I get kicked out just after the baby is born?  What if I get forcibly removed!  What if I end up in one of those immigrant camps in Calais?  What if you see me on the news with Lily Allen feeding me bread or something.”

Zsuzsa takes a moment to formulate her comforting words.

“It’s strange how honey goes with carrots.” she eventually says.

“What?  Why are you still banging on about carrots?  I’m pouring out my heart and soul to you here!”

“Come on honey.  You’re being silly.”

“Brexit is silly!” says Mila.  A phrase that Zsuzsa taught her a couple of weeks ago.  Although to be fair, I’m not sure if Mila truly believes this sentiment.  Sometimes I just think she’s repeating words for the sake of it.  She better not be a closet Brexiter!

Zsuzsa places her hand on my knee reassuringly.

“You’re not going to be kicked out of Hungary honey.  We’re married.  You can stay.  Lily Allen is not going to feed you bread.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

I smile.

“Because I’m trying to cut back on bread you see?  It sticks more since I turned forty.  Need to make more of an effort to keep trim.”

Zsuzsa aka The Beastmaster, in action at Center Parcs

Zsuzsa aka The Beastmaster, in action at Center Parcs

We drive on in comfortable silence for a few minutes.  After a while I steal another glance at my beautiful, pregnant Hungarian vixen.  She’s smiling intently at her mobile phone.  My curiosity is piqued.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Oh, just buying myself a surprise.” replies Zsuzsa.

I ponder that sentence for a moment.  Something doesn’t seem right.

“How can you buy yourself a surprise?  You know what it is.”

“It is a surprise, because I am surprised that I am buying it for myself.”

“Er”, I say before trailing off.

I decide to leave it.  If my wife wants to surprise herself, who am I to stop her.

And on we go.  Forever forward.  Just myself and my ever expanding band of tiny females.  Back where it all began.  Back into the unknown.  Back to the land where every word seems to contain the letter ‘z’.  Back to where sour cream is king.  Back to immigrant life.  Back to being a foreigner in a foreign land.  Back to Budapest, via Center Parcs.

Let the adventure never end.  

“Brexit is silly!” bellows Mila.

Yes it is my little cub.  Yes it is.