The moral of the piece – just about any piece – is: don’t make up your mind.

Perhaps more accurately, should you be brave enough to make a decision about anything, whether it be what to wear, proroguing Parliament or nuking hurricanes, never be daft enough to look for fulsome approval of your thinking.

By way of minor domestic example, there was a big do looming. Seriously big. Very exciting. Opening night at Milan’s magnificent opera house. Probably the finest in Europe (can I mention Europe now?) and I was to be a guest – in a box, no less – with no time to shop for a new posh frock.

This was a problem, obviously, for a Brampton home-body who doesn’t get out much these days. Hours of trying on and discarding, accessorising to hide lumps and bumps, scattering old (very old) faithful evening wear around bedrooms in frustration, I finally made up my mind.

“What do you think?” Pleased with myself – well, at least it fit – I sought approval. “Please be honest.”

“Perfect!” she said. “Exactly right. Well done you. You look so good in black and that splash of colour in the wrap. Love it!

“What other options do you have?”

And there it was. The rapid crashing tumble back to square one. Options? They were all over the floors of two rooms. I’d ruled out all other options ages since. But now...?

Such is life. Make up your mind at your own risk. Decision making will always be perilous, if and when you look for endorsement of how clever you’ve been. Somebody somewhere will always plant the doubting seeds of other options. That’s when you sink... drowning, not waving.

As my old dad used to say (in slightly stronger language): “Beware of messing about when a decision’s been made. Don’t do it. That’s where trouble lies.”

Right enough. Years of prevarication and loaded argument of the showboating kind have brought us to a most unpretty pass – long after a decision was made.

Dad would have dined out on his “buggering about” theory, had he lived long enough. Even though, as an impassioned Remainer, he’d hated the original decision.

I confess I’d have loved to have been sitting quietly in a dark corner when the PM asked the Queen to allow his messing about plan. Not that she had any options – she being obliged to take advice from her prime minister – but her facial expressions are the most readable in the realm and they’d have been a treat to see.

Like: You ask me this now? When I’m on holiday and my favourite son is accused of being a monster, Meghan is in unfair bother again and people are kicking off because George wants to be a ballet dancer? Haven’t I enough on my Royal Doulton plate? Wasn’t this decision made three years ago?

Or maybe not. Unless someone was hiding in a shady corner and can tell us what her face gave away, we’ll probably never know.

What we do know is that we rumble on in anger and trepidation; a country divided by the ‘other’ options thrown into a messy mix, following a decision.

Not entirely definitive – as decisions go – but a decision of sorts nonetheless.

“Looks like this horrible throbbing pustule is being brought to a head,” a friend opined, not particularly helpfully.

Whatever your political stripe, it’s saddening to know that what we see now was always avoidable. It was never necessary or desirable. It was the toing and froing, the ambitious showboating and – yes – the messing about that did the worst damage.

And, in the end, when our deep wounds have left their lasting scars and all this pain is over (everything gets over at some point) we’ll be right back at square one – probably with our original decision.

Such is life. Unless you fancy firing nuclear weapons at the weather.

A bit like me and my opera frock... long, black, years old, with shocking pink silk wrap. Maybe not ideal but first choice. Now comes the tidying up bit, which will take some time.

Everything else was unnecessarily stressful – having once made up my mind.