Do they come for you at dawn or dusk? In the dead of night, or at family dinnertime? Will they come with masks and shields, or will they be kindly and sheepishly apologetic? Will they accept a cup of tea and a biscuit if offered? Will there be bags already packed by the door, protocols prepped and drilled, a list of numbers to call? Will you go quietly and with dignity, or in a mess of curse words and screaming limbs?
Perhaps right now this all feels a little fantastical and far-fetched. Perhaps it feels hard to imagine the great wave of remigration lapping up on the pristine middle-class doorsteps of Stroud or Stoke Newington. We can still have a chuckle about it. Maybe there’ll be a nice fat relocation cheque. A free one-way holiday on the British government. Always wanted to visit China at this time of year, and so on.
