One of the things I’ve been doing is asking Londoners to weigh in with their opinions about the ongoing, slow-motion crash that is Brexit. On the backs of toilet stall doors.


So, how is Brexit going?

One person gets straight to the point:


Others engage with the complexity of Britain’s geopolitical relationship to Europe:

‘Brexit will never happen. It can’t. It will be called ‘Brexit’ but we can’t separate ourselves from Europe in reality.’

Today’s news includes talks of a “special” Brexit deal. Macron warns that Britain would not have full access to the single market without accepting its rules.

I’ve been wondering about the details of ‘separating ourselves’ from Europe. I’m wondering where David Cameron is now, and what he thinks of when he surveys the widespread insecurity born out of the referendum screw-up he was instrumental to orchestrating.

Who gets to walk away whistling?


Tweets from Donald Trump

In the mornings, we wake up to tweets from Donald Trump.

We live our lives in stories: 140 characters or fewer. We follow their snowball effect; we wonder where the movement stops.

We measure impact on the go – dynamic risk assessment. Post Donald Trump’s election and post Brexit, news channels talked about waking up to a different kind of world. I wondered, along with friends and politicians, writers and pundits, about this difference. The space between myself and it, the impact not an explosion but a slow burn. An image comes to mind: the frog in boiling water.

Perhaps when we take note, it’s already too late.


I’m at the library with friends. We work on our assignments. We talk about identity, and freedom. The freedom to speak about the world around us.

We have no platform.

On Facebook, a man shares lengthy articles – the words of others, about the brand of anarchism that appeals to him. The man: a student of a mainstream university, the same one we’re attached to. I think about his anarchy. I see the world restructured in his image, the image he claims that he believes in.

We talk about hypocrisy. We talk about elitism. We’re part of the elite, or an elite compared to none.

Our essays are ignored. We talk for hours. Our conversation fails the Bechdel test.


In the evenings, we watch the news with growing hopelessness.

We live on a perpetual edge of change; the world adapts to each new blow. I hope to see another morning, although the pot keeps boiling, threatening to spill over the edge. I wonder if maybe it doesn’t even need to. Whether the steady boil might be enough.

We’ll wake up tomorrow to a new tweet from Donald Trump.