This year, I will definitely remember my mother's birthday. For she was born on the 8 June, one year I am not allowed to mention.
That is also the last day anything is going to make sense, ever.
Theresa May has called a General Election on that date. Obviously I won't be touching my slice of cake till after I have been to the polls, but I know more or less what I expect to happen. The vote -- among those who can be bothered, after the Scottish Independence Referendum, the 2015 General Election, the Brexit referendum and the Local Elections in May -- is going to be split between Labour (only we can beat the Tories), the Lib Dems (only we can reverse Article 50 and restore our place at the EU table) and the Greens (what the hell, may as well, they can't be as bad as any of the others), against which the Conservatives will romp comfortably home to victory. The remainder of the EU will almost certainly seek to impose some sort of punitive trade tariffs, as a warning to anybody else thinking of leaving; and our former trading partners elsewhere in the world, who were taking advantage of our easy trade links with Europe, might well revise their own tariffs.
This country will be asset-stripped, and the carcass left to rot.