Well, a cataclysmic victory took place last night. We did not have three in the bed. At my insistence, Dearest left his i-pad downstairs. I did not want to hear about Donald Trump in the small wee hours.
Instead, Dearest got out of bed, sometime around 4am and came back to bed at five, saying with weary resignation, "It's a done deal".
In Britain we follow the American elections with a fervour that I'm sure is not reciprocated by our American friends, regarding our own. We struggle at times with the complexity, but we listen hard. Everyone we have spoken to has said, since the middle of summer that Trump's bid stood more than a chance of success. Nobody wanted to believe it. But when Brexit took place here, it seemed a unnerving possibility.
I am no political commentator, but I fail to see any positives today. All I can envisage is a field-day for political cartoonists who are so good at mocking what we fear most.
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