I’m hoping that by the end of the week we may be nearer to a political solution to the national crisis that is Brexit. I am also hoping that by the time Sunday evening comes around, I will not have paid attention to it via the media, social or otherwise.

Having come off Facebook and Instagram, I have nevertheless spent the last two weeks glued to my phone via the Brexitcast podcast and online pages of The Guardian. I am not just well informed, I am super-informed.

But I am exhausted, too. And not just because of Saturday’s dawn-start to get to London for the People’s Vote March.

One of the best things about the march was how alive and in the moment it made me feel. Even had I wanted to live-tweet images of my progress, the lack of usable 4G in central London ensured that our snail’s pace steps were accompanied by some very analogue ways of being: saying hello to people; maintaining eye contact; conversation; looking around in wonder.

So this week, as the first real spring sunshine hits my tired face and body, I am going to eschew updating myself with hourly updates of Theresa May’s latest catastrophe/blunder/humiliation/deception. I have no doubt that it will be the ‘monumental’ week the press have predicted it to be. For once, however, it will have to go on without my jaded gaze.

I want and need to pay attention to other things. Poems, perhaps. Or even the returning of the light. The robin outside my window. That would be a start.