Growing up in a family who were both the staunchest of unionists and most devout of high church Anglicans my considerations have ever been first and foremost as a resident of Britannia as opposed to as a Scot. The concept of a truly independent Scotland had been accepted as an impossibility by my ancestors for at minimum five centuries, a constant precept if you will through some twelve or thirteen generations.
While I commiserate with those hustling for more true independence than presently experience I am inclined to think the negatives of such a financial, social and political realignment would far outweigh any possible benefits. The vast majority of the northern population are not claymore brandishing, tartan wearing, saltire waving highlanders, but are in the majority sassenach, generally prospering under the not totally unpleasant, if overtly feudal patronage of the triple crown. In truth I doubt if many Scots would know what to do with such unstructured freedom if attained, the same probably being true for the populations of Wales, Cornwall, Ulster and even the old enemy, England itself. Unions are inherently complicated to manufacture, and like divorces incredibly difficult to sunder amicably or peaceably.
The belabored and conflicted relationship betwixt lion and unicorn oft diagnosed in my writings is probably representative of mine own confused feelings on connectivity between the country of my birth and the country of much of my early residency. Both are equally ensconced within mine heart and to allow one to gain precedence over the other would wholly diminish rather than increase my being.
I am finding however that as I continue to mature the Scot within me, the wild, passionate, uncompromising and oft disobedience soul becomes if anything bolder, and my Anglicized mild, well-mannered and law-abiding persona is inclined on many an occasion to dissipate. Keeping the two integrities balanced in some form of duality becomes increasingly problematic particularly as the world around becomes engulfed in one crisis after crisis.
I am inclined to recognize and accept the obvious correlation between my aged self and my past youthful exuberant self, both undeniably filled with unparalleled mischief, a holy predictable degree of dogged and self-indulgent independence and a dedicated belligerency towards any form of Authority that might attempt to block my whim and fancy.
Alice had been taken hostage by the Red Knight whose sole purpose in life seemed to be the capture and ransom of individuals he perceived as being in some form or other attached to the court of the White King. Try as Alice might the knight had not the slightest interest in hearing her explanation, even when the saga of her so recent cake sharing with the Red King came stumbling from between her now overly tight and downturned lips. In hindsight the knight, Sir Rosehip Hip Chevalier probably should have been paying closer attention, but his mind was already exchanging the ransom for as large a bag of Eccles cakes as the coinage could buy, a matter that brought such joy to his heart that he thrice fell off his trusty stead and was obliged to remount once more.
Sir Rosehip had placed a rather pretty diamante bracelet around Alices left wrist and by the use of an equally fabulous leash was now guiding her across what appeared to be an enormously proportioned chess board mowed cunningly into the luscious grasses beneath Alice dainty feet and Hip Chevalier’s mounts manicured hooves. Forward progress was tedious to say the least, every third forward clipety being necessarily followed by a sideways clop. Alices patience was wearing thin.
“This will take forever!”