Let me start with two personal stories. In 2010 I was the European Political Director in the British Foreign Office. One of my briefs was Gibraltar, that famous rock at the mouth of the Mediterranean transferred by Spain to the UK in the early nineteenth century, and what diplomats call “an irritant to the bilateral relationship” ever since. It was my role to represent the UK in what were called trilateral talks between the UK, Gibraltar, and Spain.
For Spain this was a great concession; their traditional position was not to talk to Gibraltar direct, and only to talk to us about Gibraltar, without Gibraltar in the room. The Gibraltar Chief Minister of the time was both a great master of detail and a great master of dramatic emotion. At one point he declared himself shocked and offended by something our Spanish colleague had said; he got up and stormed out of the room, saying the talks were over. But did he really mean it? Or was the drama a show, designed to break the rhythm of the negotiations and give him time to shift position with dignity? I thought it was probably the latter. So after leaving a few minutes I got up, went to his room, coaxed him with a face-saving formula which allowed him to return a few minutes later to the talks, which then went swimmingly. There was plenty of common ground; but human nature made it complicated to arrive there. Just another day in the diplomatic world.
Remembering that episode, I was taken back a further 35 years, to the front room of my family home in south London in 1975.
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