A few years ago, weeks after that vote that cut us all out of Europe (what a falling off was there...), my other half and I went on a dream holiday to Sorrento.
We look back and remember the slope of sunlight in an old monastery garden; sipping fresh lemonade on the steps of a cafe in Amalfi, the tight hairpin bends on the coastline and our kind bus driver, who pulled up, got out and helped a woman coming the other way by jumping into her car, whirling the steering wheel about and navigating the corner.
Some of us were amazed by the wonders of Pompeii; others of us thought the relics from its brothel in the Naples museum were very amusing. (I’m shallow like that).
The brothel 'menu' was up in pictures on the wall and customers could point to their fancy, rather in the way that one might point to a large burger, fries, and a Mr Whippy to follow up.
I laughed raucously, much in the way we all chortled at ye olde Blockbusters on TV, whenever anybody said: “I’ll have a P, Bob.”
Such innocent times.
On the first evening in that long ago Italian restaurant overlooking the beautiful bay of Naples – the sea is turquoise and shimmers in the heat – we shared our table with two English couples.
Wishing to break the ice, kickstart the conversation and generally ignite a lively debate, I said: “What about Brexit?”
Turns out we were sitting with one 'leave' and one 'remain' couple... that was an interesting evening that turned into a strange week – same seats for duration.
“Brexit? Why bring up Brexit? Did you really have to?” asked my other half later, in the privacy of our room.
I have big feet and plunge regularly into bogholes... if you have suffered, it was not intentional and I am sorry.
But the point of this memory of Brexit is that it takes a while to realise that many people do not share your opinion.
I never cried over Lassie but shed bitter tears over Brexit.
Others wept for the dog and voted 'leave'... and where are all the new hospitals?
I give Europe douze points and you say a great big NUL.
This brings us, in a roundabout way, to Philip Larkin, the poet. He’s another love-hate thing.
It’s exams season – as surely as the golden sun dapples the grass, the Red Bull sales shoot through the roof and the lawns of Botanic gardens are strewn with students tapping frantically on laptops.
Larkin features on the GCSE English literature syllabus. I know this because there are those close to me studying for that exam who asked for a little help understanding a set poem.
Larkin is as Marmite as Brexit. There are those who love the miserable bastard that was Philip Larkin and those who just think he was a miserable bastard.
He did write those famous lines about how your mum and dad f*** you up, so you can see the draw.
He did also describe work as the “toad” squatting on his life and many of us can identify with that.
But the one on the GCSE syllabus is a real downer.
The speaker talks about two women – one a “bosomy English rose” and the other “in specs”. So he dated the one in specs for about seven years but kept the beautiful one’s picture in his wallet... even though he only met “beautiful” twice.
And what does this say about love?
Reader, I sure as hell wouldn’t have married him.
I read the poem and then I read it again and then I read the other one in the poetry list from Simon Armitage that was about a schoolboy in a chemistry lab and how the speaker held a set of scissors in the lilac Bunsen burner flame and gave said scissors to the object of his affections, branding her for life.
And I thought “Where is the love?”
“It’s a twisted love, it’s not love at all, it’s ugly,” I tell my brother, a close relation of the GCSE candidate who is struggling with the dark underbelly that is Larkin.
“You mean like ‘tainted love’,” says my brother.
“Once I ran to you... now I run from you,” I tell my brother. “Twisted, sordid, tainted love.”
Brexit, Larkin – the world is divided... it’s all Marmite.
I’m so glad my O-levels are over.
