It's time up for Theresa.

It's time up for Theresa.

Oh well it's time up for Theresa May. For the last time the British and Unionist Prime Minister has left the building and it's Bank Holiday Monday time for the good folk of the United Kingdom. It's time to head for the bracing breezes of the seaside and the coast while always remembering the enduring legacy left behind the now outgoing Prime Minister.

History will tell us that Mrs. May was perhaps the most persistent, tenacious and determined PM Britain has had for quite a while. There are others who believe she was the most divisive, indecisive, unsure and dithering of Prime Ministers. Regularly, we were told that she was doing her hardest to come to some amicable agreement with her European Union colleagues only to find that all they could do was shut the door firmly in her face.

Last Friday morning she emerged from 10 Downing Street blinking in the late spring sunshine, hoping that all the formalities would go according to plan and nobody would judge her for what had happened in the past, still believing that nobody could have tried harder. But politics can be a cruel business and after all those endless discussions that came to absolutely nothing here she was on her final day in office at No 10 and the whole world wasn't really on her side after all.

She spoke into those reed thin microphones, facing her inquisitors and composing herself for one last tearful hurrah. She cut a figure of despair, utter anguish and pained desolation. This is not the way it should have ended because she had to be seen as a figure of authority whose leadership qualities should never have been questioned. She was doing a quietly competent job and if you'd only left her to her own devices we'd have left the EU with a positive outcome and none would have quibbled.

But oh no! Come the 29th March, the date assigned for Britain's official withdrawal from the European Union and we were still twiddling our fingers, burying our heads in deep thought, locked   in a state of grim introspection and wondering how time was passing so quickly. On the 29th March nothing happened and we were still looking at our watches, still in the EU and stuck in a rut.

In that final week leading up to the 29th March we were still frantically going through the motions, voting over and over again for something none of us could possibly get a handle on. There were deals and no deals, the soft and hard borders, Ireland pointing accusing fingers at the rest of the United Kingdom and puzzled by the ridiculousness of it all. There was the Custom House impasse, the endless drivel and gobbledygook that seemed to gush from the mouths of a thousand politicians and then the Double Dutch which flowed almost comically from those cliched mouths.

Sadly though it just wasn't enough, the modern day Iron Lady allowing the solemnity of the occasion to get the better of her. She admitted that she'd tried three times to get that final vote over the line and still they wouldn't budge. She kept staring at her notes as if that would somehow soften the blow, repeatedly claiming that she'd done all she could to keep the boat afloat. But then her face, by now increasingly crumpling and just folding within itself, eventually fell into some twisted scowl that couldn't comprehend why or how.

She began with references to the remarkable Sir Nicholas Winton, the man who admirably came to the rescue to millions of displaced and then tortured Jewish children during the Second World War. She quoted his heroism and exemplary courage, the memorable example he'd set for decades to come. She now delivered yet more familiar phrases about closer co-operation from our European neighbours and the ultimate compromises that would have to be made if that final departure from Europe could be anything less than a successful one.

Still though the doubts and prevarications prevailed. There were the tired old statements, the petty insults, the mixed messages, the foolhardy pronouncements, the confusion, the bitter confrontations, the weird mannerisms and those bellowing voices that just kept getting louder. There were the forest of blue EU flags outside the Houses of Parliament, cyclists trundling up and down the road curiously for no other reason than they wanted to get their point across and much more tomfoolery.

And yet now in the aftermath of the European elections where the Conservative party have once again struggled desperately for some semblance of unity, the leaving Prime Minister can only look on in horror.  It is only now that Prime Minister can only hide behind closed doors in a search for much needed privacy with husband George.

How she must be longing for one of those restful walking holidays, quality time with her devoted husband and the privacy some of us feel she rightfully deserves. Uttering her final sentence outside Downing Street, her voice now cracked and broken, she once again confirmed her love of her country and naturally felt honoured to hold the office of Prime Minister. At this point she turned politely on her heels, slowly stepped back to that famous door and presumably cried rivers of tears.

So who holds the balance of power? In a couple of weeks time the UK will find themselves in a strange state of limbo not knowing whether they're coming or going. We'll have a caretaker Prime Minister with no broom to sweep the corridors of Westminster and no- one to look after Larry the Cat.  The country will just have to fend for itself without any real influence from the green seats of the Cabinet.

Meanwhile behind Theresa May, that mad keen, cyclist Boris Johnson prepares himself for the top job hair,  hair of golden wheat flying in all manner of directions. Now here's the man with a mission, a man who some are convinced has always had ideas way above his station, delusions of grandeur accompanying him every pedal of his much cherished bike ride. The man is consumed with his own self importance and to those who see him as by far the most pompous man in Britain, the coming months could be too controversial for words.

Finally last but not least there is Nigel Farage, now head of the newly minted Brexit Party. For a majority of us Farage is one of those impassioned patriots who can barely bring himself to associate with anybody who comes from Brussels. Farage wants his country back which is his prerogative. The truth is that Farage, for the last three years, has poured his heart out interminably about nothing in particular. He sits there pint of Guinness in one hand, cigarette dangling forlornly from his lips, spouting more and more platitudes, frothing from the mouth and then attacking the European Union.

For Theresa May this could be a summer for taking stock of her life in politics. Your mind turns back to her previous incumbent of PM, one David Cameron. What exactly do former Prime Ministers get up to when nobody needs them anymore? Do they turn to their trusty laptops and compile their memoirs or do they perhaps think about charity work, vastly eloquent after dinner speeches, becoming a prominent ambassador or just getting stuck into a 50,000 jigsaw piece puzzle? We do wish Mrs May well in her life as former Prime Minister. She remains one of our most gracious politicians. It is time to settle for the quiet life.