I woke up to 46 missed messages on a group chat the other morning. It had all been kicking off while I was fast asleep. What began as a jocular discussion about the Brexit shambles ended with two people leaving the group and one telling another to ****off – something they’d been wanting to say for some time, apparently. 

It was all rather depressing. These are my friends - a hotchpotch of journos who spent a year cramming for a post-grad together in Sheffield back in the 90's. We’ve scattered far and wide since graduation and politically cover pretty much every party in terms of who or what we’d vote for.  

But this is the problem with politics - you can’t separate what you think from who you are. You can choose to live and let live for a certain amount of time, but eventually, you can’t help but take it personally. Even if you trot out the default “all politicians are as bad as each other” stance, we all secretly think our politician is better than their politician. One girl in the group chat had fallen out with her dad over the EU. It’s crazy. 

I’m not an activist and never was, though I admire those who stand up for what they believe. I’ve never held a placard or marched in protest for or against anything other than an extra ten minutes at break at school, when I was twelve. The most I’ve done is put my name to a petition if it’s a cause I truly believe in. But I will always put my tick in the box when it comes to picking a leader – local or otherwise. 

My husband and I never vote the same way. We could easily both not bother going to the community centre with our polling cards as we cancel each other out – but that would be churlish. I think our opposing but respectful views create balance for our daughters. They can make their own minds up and march all they like knowing we won’t stop feeding them if their beliefs don’t match ours. 

When it comes to Brexit though – I’m as exhausted as I am confused. When they start getting into the minutia of debates on television, I find myself wondering who’s in charge of Chris Leslie’s hair or day-dreaming about how my life might have been so different if only I’d been blessed with cheekbones like Romilly Weeks. I know I’ve zoned out completely when I start with my impressions of Robert Peston.  

But honestly, aren’t we all just bumbling along the best we can, hoping there’s something decent in the fridge for tea? Whether you’re absolutely fuming about the state of Parliament or, like me, hoping Laura Keunssberg didn’t ruin her white jacket when she was leaning on the wall along the Thames the other night, lets just leave the falling out to the politicians. I vote for going to the pub – and I’d happily carry a placard all the way there.