I’M SO tired. Tired to the bone. Tired to the last remaining synapses still firing in my head. I’m so tired that even the unexpected arrival of a Brexiteering couple who were "just passing" can barely rouse me from my political overload stupor.

So tired that I merely hold up my hand to stop any more of the nonsense burbling forth from them just a bare few hours after the Supreme Court has delivered its verdict.

My head actually does a slow drop to the table as they babble on about Remainer judges; interference into the…oh God it hurts to write the words…will of the people etc etc etc.

"Oh, you’re so funny," they laugh to each other as I moan and pray for César to do his bad dog routine and threaten them by close contact and eye stare.

The French sod lets me down and pads, equally wearily, off to fling himself onto the canapé with a groan of utter boredom.

They live more than an hour away but, while lunching with other people nearby, they heard of my travails and decided to "pop in" to see how I’m doing.

When people turn up unexpectedly to this house, there is nowhere to hide and pretend you’re not in. There is no hiding place.

For a start the dog is out, patrolling the parc edges at vast speed warning all tractors and occasional passing cars to come not hither as he is the guardian of LM and all who live in her.

If one actually turns into the drive, he beats it back inside to let me know trouble’s coming. Great. Then he runs back outside to bark and circle from a distance.

God forgive me, or rather, my mother, for no matter what I may be feeling inside, I paste on the smile of welcome and say: "Well, how lovely! Goodness, don’t you both look well. Come in, come in….have a drink. It’s been far too long."

I really want to say: "Bugger off. It’s three years since I last saw you. I’ve never liked you. Don’t know why you’re here ‘cos I know you don’t like me either. Maybe that’s why it’s three or maybe four years since we last met?"

I close the Mac. Take a bottle from the rack, put out three glasses and say: "Please, sit."

Thankfully my hair is washed, the CBD is doing its work and, praise be, I’m even sort of dressed.

"Have you been watching the telly?" she says, irritating me immediately. Telly. "Did you see the ruling?"

"Yes, of course," I reply, "But actually now I’m afraid I’m just about to write my column but I’m fine for an hour."

"Still scribbling away then? Good. Good."

"Suppose there’s no point saying to you how shocking we found it all," says himself, sniffing a wine way beyond anything he ever served in his house.

"Why do you say that?" I ask innocently, rictus smile in place. "Well, I’m sure you’re one of those Remoaners…..fits the profile, eh?"

They both laugh merrily. Yes, you can laugh merrily. It’s the most false, most self-satisfied laugh in the repertoire.

After three years of merde like this from certain self-styled ex-pats I’m beyond discussion and frankly would rather just grab their elbows and huckle them from the house.

But instead I say – "Yep, I am, as are most intelligent, sane, rational, not quite yet brain-dead people who have reaped the benefits of peace, internationalism, free movement, integration and, once, cheap living, when the UK became unaffordable for people…people like you. Immigrants."

I remembered at the end to give a bright upward smile. Didn’t want to cause offence or anything, dontcha know.

Their eyes raised to heaven in unison. "Should have known better than to mention politics," she said – not merrily but tightly.

"Not at all," I said, merrily. "Stuff of life but only when like meets like, eh?

"Actually, yes, you should have known better. But you’ll get off lightly today for I am tired, busy, sick of the whole shebang and no longer want to engage with people who are beyond redemption."

Didn’t stop him and off he went spouting the usual nonsense to do with a country he no longer lived in and hadn’t for 20 years.

That was when my head slowly dropped to the table and my hand raised.

"So," after apparently amusing them, "You’ll be going back then?"

"Well, we can’t," she said with a downturn of the mouth. "We couldn’t afford to buy anything like we have here."

Interesting. So, you’ll get a carte de sejour? What about your health care if it’s taken away?

"Oh, we’ve decided to apply for French citizenship," he answered for her, accepting another glass of wine.

"That keeps us in their health service with all the benefits. It also means we can move easily."

"Move? Move where?"

They huddled forward towards me. "We quite fancy a change," she said. "Maybe Spain or Italy."

"And with French citizenship it would be pretty seamless," he finished her sentence.

"Because you’ll be an EU citizen and have freedom of movement?"

"Got it in one," he said expecting praise.

In the end I could only laugh – hysterically. And tell them to go. Nicely. I had some scribbling to do.