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She was going to be late for the meeting; she would have to nip into the local takeaway and procure one of those kebab thingies the hoi polloi so vociferously praise. This she ingurgitated, imbruing her hands and maw with an oleaginous sheen. In retrospect, the hearty repast obtained from the ebullient kebab vendor was decidedly ill-advised. Three pounds of the finest animal detritus, shaved before her eyes, and garnished with spiced mayonnaise, could only produce a foregone conclusion. Several hours had now elapsed and the enteric distress had become overawing. After the meeting ended she returned home forthwith. Entering the house, she dashed to the thunderbox with an alacrity usually displayed by children on Christmas morning. She seated, her lips puckered and paled as she prayed for quietus. Only one thing was certain: it was going to be a difficult Brexit.