You put a hand to your chin in thought. Sausages from Lincolnshire, it says on the menu. One of the most strongly Leave counties in the country. And the Cumbrian bacon… Cumbria was even more Europhobic than Lincolnshire. Is this some kind of breakfast themed omen?
Today’s the day you have a conference call with Jean-Jacques Terlamen, President of the EU Commission. You’ve promised to outline the UK’s position on the possibility of some kind of Norwegian model of Brexit that they have suggested we look at.
Joining the European Economic Area would almost certainly not go down well in Cumbria or Lincolnshire. On the other hand, we really need access to the EU markets in some shape or form, and the Scots would be on board, as would the City. But those Lincolnshire sausages... How can you sell a Brexit where nothing changes much except that we have even less say in the way things are run than we did before? Maybe it’s time to bring home the bacon to Cumbria, even it the economy does take a hit.
There’s a knock on the door and Wilkins ushers in three of your senior ministers. Alan Stollard strolls in looking more like a Labour leader from the seventies than the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
He’s holding a leather briefcase that’s virtually bursting at the seams with documents and files.
He nods at you. ‘Morning, Prime Minister,’ He sits and meticulously lays out neat piles of documents across the table in front of him before reaching for the breakfast menu.
Behind him comes the International Trade Minister, Leslie Barkwell. He’s looking dapper and well-coiffeured, with a finely tailored suit and a bright blue tie with small polka dots. His tie actually reminds you of the EU flag, which is odd, given that Barkwell is a die-hard Brexiter.
He smiles at you politely, and with his usual facetious over-courtesy asks permission to sit. You nod. He sits, rather primly, straight backed, hands folded neatly in front of him, eyes focused on you. He looks like a burglar whose brief has made him put on a suit to appear before the judge.
After him comes Denis Dent, the Secretary of State of the newly created Ministry of Exiting the EU. Blue suit, red tie, grinning the whole time. His hair white as snow and neatly cut. Red tie, blue suit, white hair – a walking Union Jack. He strides to his chair and sits purposefully.
‘Morning, gentlemen,’ you say, glancing at your watch. ‘Just need another minute or two.’
‘Peter running late again, eh?’ says Barkwell.
You nod ruefully. Stollard raises his eyes. Dent chuckles.
The door bursts open and in stumbles Peter Strewel, the Foreign Secretary.
‘Cripes, chums, sorry I’m late!’ he says loudly, as he straggles his way to his seat, a wallet folder under one arm. His suit’s a dishevelled mess and his hair resembles a wig made from the hair of an albino orang-utan, although you know it’s real. He bundles into his chair, looking like some kind of bloated cloth-headed doll.
One of the Downing Street staffers comes forward. ‘I’ll have the continental,’ says Stollard, handing her his menu.
‘Nothing for me, thank you,’ says Barkwell. ‘I’ve eaten already.’
Dent grins up at the waitress. ‘Scrambled eggs, no salmon for me, thank you.’ He turns to Strewel.
‘English breakfast, by golly!’ says Strewel, slamming his fist down on the table and rattling the plates and cutlery.
You sigh and reach for the coffee. This could be a long morning.
630
‘Might as well get this show on the road, eh?’ says Strewel.
The hush of an angel passing. No one seems in a particular hurry to get the ball rolling.
‘Prime Minister, why don’t you start by telling us your thinking?’ asks Barkwell after a few moments. Dent and Stollard look at you expectantly. What will you say?
‘Clearly our highest priority should be remain within the single market.’
‘Our interests are best served by forging a new bespoke trade arrangement.’
‘While we obviously cannot accept the terms the EU would impose for staying in the single market, we could opt for membership of the European Customs Union.’