Don't Talk About Brexit

At the beginning of the week, I was at the Manchester Jazz Festival, enjoying a series of (free) performances by a contingent of French groups promoted by the Association Jazzé Croisé. They were talented performers and accomplished English-speakers, addressing their audience with wit, humour and tact, never once mentioning Brexit, though I’m sure I sensed an underlying tone of regret at our imminent departure. Next day, on a train to London I was sitting next to a couple of empty-nesters on their way to visit their offspring and we struck up amiable small talk. Since it is the accepted convention to avoid religion and politics on first acquaintance, we did just that. However, after an hour of uninteresting accounts of their favourite holiday destinations, I was almost hoping they might instead court controversy by raising the B question. But we arrived at Euston shortly afterwards and the awkward moment passed.

In London, the following night, the heatwave broke down amid thunderstorms, followed by an eclipse of the moon. Science provides explanations for such phenomena but they were, nevertheless, sufficiently spectacular for me to imagine why our uninformed ancestors believed them to be signs of the gods’ displeasure. Ten days ago, I was viewing the remains of the Roman city at Wroxeter, most of which is buried under agricultural land and which, were it not for the skill and knowledge of archaeologists, might easily be mistaken for a group of randomly abandoned foundations. I wandered the site and read the interpretive material, marvelling at how our ancient ancestors, through their own efforts, and using advanced engineering techniques, designed and built a thriving city yet still credited imagined gods for their success. Superstition trumped rationality, then as now.

Yesterday, in London, I went to explore the newly opened section of ‘pedway’, or elevated walkway, through the cluster of office buildings at London Wall. The location is at the heart of fortified, Roman Londinium and this scheme aims to do two things: link the many buildings for pedestrians, while showcasing the sorry remnants of the ancient Wall. It succeeds in both. Moreover, it extends north to the Barbican Estate and south to the Guildhall, taking in the Museum of London at the centre of the complex and thereby providing the basis for a grand day out – if you are interested in urban history. I had never before been to the Guildhall, so was surprised to find that it has an extensive collection of paintings in galleries open to the public. The architects who extended those galleries also got a surprise, when they discovered the remains of a Roman amphitheatre underneath the building. It’s not much to look at – just the outline of part of the foundations and some wooden drainage channels – but the display chamber is lavish, clever and evocative.

However, I was drawn back to modernity by a walk around the Barbican Estate, a place I do know and one where I aspire to live one day. “A concrete monstrosity,” is some people’s opinion, but I admire the rationality of the compact, densely populated development with its gardens, fountains, communal facilities etc. In short, I favour its modernist ideals of urban living. The development was conceived in the late 1950s, a time when town planners embraced a vision of moving on from class divisions, slums, and European wars – principles not dissimilar from those who conceived and founded the EU in that same decade. In both cases, however, they were swimming against the tide of irrational human behaviour.

The next day, at a family gathering, the conversation began to drift towards the topic of Brexit but fear of the quagmire swallowing up the party quickly led to a consensus to change the subject. “Don’t talk about Brexit!” we all said – though really, we know we must.