As an olive oil, and not a lard man, I woke-up on 24 June and thought ‘Bonjour, tristesse’. Then I slept on it, woke up on 25 June and thought of John Milton. The blind poet once dreamt that his sight was restored and his dead wife was alive. And he woke up to find himself still a blind widower. Brexit was like that for me: a bad dream that did not disperse with the dawn.

It’s very sad. There’s a marvellously untranslatable German word Sehnsucht, which suggests that feeling of otherness sometimes felt in places or before works of art. A state-of-mind that is felt mostly as a vague, but perplexing, sense of loss. With Brexit, there’s a bittersweet, I am sorry I really mean agro-dolce, feeling that we have uninvited ourselves from the best party on the bloc.

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