That bastard verdict

Cycling to work yesterday the air actually felt tangible. I knew the result, had done for hours, and clearly everyone else did as well. This shared knowledge of what wasn’t going to happen had somehow generated a quiet and reflective calm, an atmosphere only broken by the rush hour traffic at the very centre of the city.

Before then, therre was time on my commute to reflect upon what it now means to be Scottish now that Scotland has chosen to be fear-mongered into mediocrity. Except, I realised I don’t actually know what being Scottish is anymore, what had been a national identity I’d worn with pride now felt dirty and tainted. 

So if I’m not Scottish, it seems I’m obliged to be resolutely British; no great national adventure for me, rather it’s the Royal family, penalising the poor, the sick and the disabled and endlessly worrying about immigration, the EU and house prices. Rule-fucking-Brittania.