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Walking back in light, vertical rain last evening amid that glorious cacophony of early summer birdsong mingling scents of honeysuckle, clematis and damp bark, there came one of those deeply satisfying, long low rumbling rolls of thunder. It reminded me of the leg-lifting farts that Guns who stand in front of a roaring fire at weekend shooting parties aim straight up the chimney.

And as I strolled, with every step growing soggier, thoughts turned to how this world will look a week from today and pondered the bumpy ride to follow.

Having been educated (sic) inter alia in Germany and France and being a Viking, there are a number of friends on my Eurotrash email list. I asked them how they’d vote were they required to choose whether their country ought stay within the European Union.

I wrote in their language and, with one exception who bucked the trend in every respect, universally they responded in English. Universally they would vote to stay, universally they want the UK to stay, universally they are dismayed the UK appears to sense and hold itself so separate.

We blogos’ed recently on really not knowing which way an EQ wind blew regarding the Referendum. Six days to go and I still don’t. But in virtue that you don’t fix a problem by running away from it – and it would be a dismal way to treat the neighbours – much to my surprise, I’m minded to stay in.

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