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When I woke up on that warm 24th of June, at six o’clock, other than my regular neck ache, I felt something, a sense
of disappointment. I knew Leave had lost the referendum. The exit polls had said that leave would lose. The bookies had said we would lose. My natural-born pessimism had seeped in.
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Of course, I was in bed at this time. I was left to my thoughts. My own cynical thoughts. I hadn’t actually bothered to look at the news.
That was until my sister came screeching in exclaiming, “We are leaving the EU! You won!”
I had to make sure. “It couldn’t be,” I thought. “The people taking a stand? No chance. She must be pulling my leg.”
But lo and behold, it was true. Utterly. 52% for Leave to a 48% for Remain.
I won’t lie, I did cry. I’m not ashamed of it either. I’m rarely made happy by the political discourse, but this was the rare exception. I had actually had a sense of pride for the nation and the people who finally took a stand against its masters. ...