A Brexit Christmas Carol

[brooklynite]

Politico:

Thatcher was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. She had worn the EU-flag jumper. She had negotiated the rebate. She had made the speech in Bruges. But she had been dead for years now.

Theresa May had taken over the firm they ran. Because they were both members of the fairer sex — as those of the Rees-Moggian persuasion are wont to say — people often confused the two. Hard and sharp as flint, they wore suits and pearls, ran the business coldly and efficiently, and counted every last penny. External heat and cold had little influence on May. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill her. Late at night, bypassers peeping through the windows of 10 Downing Street would see her, counting pennies by a meager fire. “Strong and stable,” she would say as she put another mark in the column. “Strong and stable.”

Once upon a time — of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve — May sat busy in Westminster. It was as foggy as the Channel on March 29. “Brexit means Brexit,” muttered May, as she poked the last lump of coal in the fire.

“A merry Brexit, aunty!” cried a cheerful voice. It was her niece, Anna Soubry, running in from the House of Commons where she’d been expressing her rebellious streak. “Season’s Greetings to us all!”