So, apparently, after lots of hot air on both sides of the Border, we're going to get a vote.
Scottish Independence. Here we come. Or not, clearly, depending on what happens in 2014.
And, somehow, it feels personal.
Because I'm English. Born there. Bred there. But Scotland is my home. And the home of my husband (Scottish) and my children (well, what are they?). It's where I live and where I hope to die. I belong here now.
But if Scotland, and the Scots (does that include me? Do I get a vote? Will they be breathalysing voters for evidence of Irn Bru before they let them enter the polling stations? And what about the many, many Scots living in London, or Luton, or Lusaka?) vote to end the Union, for right or wrong that will feel like a rejection.
A rejection of England and the English. And, given that I am English, a rejection of me, by a country in which I have never felt anything but welcome.
I'm sure, in the years to come, we will hear plenty of arguments about how it's not England that subsidises Scotland, but the South East that subsidises the rest of the country (ies), or about how Scotland's in an arc of prosperity that includes Ireland and Iceland (bet Alex Salmond's wishing he'd never come up with that one), or economic this and social that, and what would happen with the pound, or the NHS, or defence, and how we do or don't need each other (and whether we ever have), and I suspect that I will have an opinion (ill-founded or otherwise) on many of these.
But for now, this isn't an opinion, it's an emotion. And it feels personal. And I don't like it.
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