Gamaun, The prophetic bird, 1897, Viktor Vasnetsov
Medium: oil,canvas
https://www.wikiart.org/en/viktor-vasnetsov/gamaun-the-prophetic-bird-1897
You’re Theresa May. You wake up while it is still dark outside; your husband has brought you breakfast in bed, which means he carried the tray begrudgingly upstairs after someone else poached the eggs and arranged them neatly on two slices of lightly-toasted sourdough. You would prefer the sourdough to be darker, and mention this to your husband. He frowns. Everything he does is wrong these days, but he doesn’t reply; it would only lead to an argument. You read the paper in silence as you eat, you can tell you have offended him. With dawning dismay, you realise that Karen Bradley, the person you made secretary of Northern Ireland, has admitted she doesn’t know where Northern Ireland is, had only recently discovered it was part of the UK, and also asked the Guardian reporter what the “situation with Dublin is? Is that still ours?”
What do you do next?
a) Close the paper slowly, and imagine what it would be like if you packed a bag right now, right this second, took a ferry to the continent, bought a wide-brimmed hat from a street-vendor in Paris while you were passing through and wore it until the breeze lifted it off your head on a beach in Italy where you fell asleep. You settle instead for telling your husband you want a divorce.
b) Call Karen. She sounds apologetic. “I didn’t even go to University,” she says, frantic. “I don’t know where other people learn these sorts of things. I didn’t even get the email with the reading list.” You sigh. You know she went to University, you read it on her wikipedia page some weeks ago. Abruptly, she starts crying. You have no patience for women who cry, and you tell her as much. “Please don’t fire me,” she manages, through tears. You hang up.
c) Go to the window. You open it slowly. Your husband watches you, but doesn’t comment. You drop your phone, where it smashes on the pavement below, and then throw what’s left of your breakfast out after it. The yolks break golden over the grey stones. They were poached to perfection. You lean your head out to better feel the wind, and scream. This country will kill you, you know it will.
