Jam tomorrow - a Brexit metaphor

'It MUST come sometimes to "jam to-day,"' Alice objected.

'No, it can't,' said the Queen. 'It's jam every OTHER day: to-day isn't any OTHER day, you know.'

John Kilbride was in Waitrose the other day when he noticed something rather peculiar. There on the shelf in the dedicated condiments and preserves aisle (I'm guessing that, I mean I haven't actually bothered to research any of this) were two sets of jam jars. Quick as a flash John did a bit of mental arithmetic (again that's a guess - don't hold me to that - I know nothing about John - ask him yourself) and deduced that in purchasing the filled jar one could make a saving of some 29 of your British pence while, you know, also having some jam in it.

Now in that, there's a rather lovely metaphor for Brexit. One jar is void, vacant - a flask of air - full of promise perhaps, but ultimately wholly barren. Most of those who buy, will do so on a whim, before putting their purchase (inevitably) on a shelf and leave it there for a year or two, before ending the matter by chucking it into the recycling container. 

"Emptiness" in itself of course a not a wholly negative thing - Mr Farage has built an entire career out of it - but the art of making really good jam is rather harder than running a mere political party. With time and endeavour and money, the empty jar could be filled with delicious preserve - but frankly the expense and effort of doing so will far outweigh the cost of the pot in the first place. 

You're basically looking at Four Quid at least for some really shit jam that has taken an inordinate and unnecessary time to cook up. But you know - sovereignty.....

Mrs Bucket's Brexit White Paper

Richard and I do not approach our candlelight soirees expecting failure, but anticipating success. 

Because we are renowned hosts, with so much to offer not only Emmett, but Liz, the Vicar, Mrs Nugent and indeed anyone who is worth knowing in high society in our neighbourhood. 

Boasting one of the best kitchens in Binley Wood. With a hand finished, Louis quatourse style dinner service, the finest sherry, the most comfortable of soft furnishings, and the support of neighbours – on both sides of our mock tudor home. 

And another thing that’s important. My Vichysoisse soup. Because after all the division and discord, the dish is finally coming together. 

The preparation was divisive at times. Richard was sent out with explicit instructions to get an onion and came back with a French shallot.  

Those divisions have taken time to heal. But the reason my soirees have always been such a success is that the quality of one’s invitees, the sophistication of one’s table-side conversation, and the finesse of my sister Violet (the one with the swimming pool, the new Mercedes and room for a pony) has always meant that things come together in the end. As for those who were not bidden, well they have the responsibility to respect the legitimacy of one’s guest list. Mrs Fortescue (who wasn’t invited) isn’t calling to reverse the result, but planning to make a success of her place on the reserve benches. 

The oven has pinged. And the overwhelming majority of guests – however hungry they might be – want us to get on with supper. So that is what we will do. Not merely providing an hors d’ouevre, but a main course, amuse bouche, and a choice of desserts too. And let that be the legacy of our soiree. The memory towards which we work. The destination at which we arrive once the dishes have been done and our faces washed in our deluxe avocado, en-suite bathroom.