Geoffrey and Tuppy talk about defibrillators and biscuits and Death and university.

'People are so boring nowadays.  By people I mean poets.  Not that I know any poets, but...'
'I know what you mean.  I've been dying to talk to you about this all week only it slipped my mind. We were only saying at DebSoc the other night...Tuppy? TUPPY!'
'Yes?  Oh sorry.  It's just when you say 'DebSoc' it knocks me out cold.  I'll just have a quick whiff of sal volatile, and run some silver foil over my fillings, and I should be able to resume my normal level of consciousness - without having to charge up the defibrillator.'
'Oh yes.  Last time we did that, it fused the lights.  And the Fulmars' jacoozy stopped pumping. The rats* strapped to the bikes down at the power station just couldn't cope Tuppy.  They've still not forgiven you for showing them up like that.  Revealing their weaknesses and all.  They like to pretend they're invincible.'
'I know all that and I don't want reminding.  Now please continue with your dreadful tale, if you must.  The sooner you start, the sooner it's over with, and I can go back to thinking about the inevitability of Death, and whether it might be a  good or bad idea to speed its relentless, grinding approach with an over-ingestion of Fox's double chocolate chunk cookies at tea-time - only don't say 'DebSoc' out loud.'
'O.K.'
Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire digesting our lunches.   I'd had three pint mugs of tea and a five-sausage sandwich with butter, pepper, and brown sauce, and he'd had a thimbleful of buttonberry and ox blood daisy-honey tisane and an aduki bean burger with half a dozen alf-alfa sprouts.
Outside the wind howled and raged like a snarling devil-dog lashed to the gates of Hell and straining at the leash.
'The wind sounds remarkably like a snarling devil-dog lashed to the gates of Hell and straining at its leash Tuppy,' said Geoffrey, picking an alf-alfa sprout out of his upper right pre-molar.
'Yes indeed.  And those flecks of rain could even be hideous slobbers flung from its vast ravening jaws.  Ah well.  Let's put the kettle on again and continue our discussion about Dylan Thomas.  In fact - let's go one better and crack open a fresh bottle of Madeira in his honour.  The sun's well over the yard-arm, I think. Not that I've any idea when or where or indeed what the yard-arm actually is.'
'Me neither.  I'm trying to lay off the drink Tuppy.  Val Nark says...'
'Val Nark can naff off.  Last time I saw her she tried to sell me a blueberry e-pipe.  Ten quid it was Geoffrey. Ten quid!  Think of all the baccy I could get for that.  If I had to buy it instead of steal it, of course.'
'Val Nark wants me to go to university Tuppy.  There, I said it.'  Geoffrey blushed and gulped and looked generally incredibly uncomfortable.  I stared at him over my eye-glasses and tried my best to make him feel even worse.
'University?'
'Yes.  She says I've got potential Tuppy.  She says I can go far.  She wants me to study book-learning,' he blurted.
'You've already BEEN far.  You've gone right round the naffing world**.'
'I suppose so...'
'And who needs book-learning?  We've got a pile of books over there, and we never open them.  Why?  Because we don't need to.  We've got all the knowledge we need right here.'  I tapped my forehead with the leg of my specs. and tried to look convincing.
'She says I could get a degree Tuppy.  In literature or philosophy maybe.  She says I'm bright.'
'Has she got a degree?'
'No.  But sometimes she listens to Radio 4 Tuppy, and that's almost as good,  if not better.'
'Who says that?'
'She does.'


more of this later...............

*the rats power all the electricity Hereabouts, by bicycling on vast numbers of exercise bikes in the tunnels below the cliffs.
**Geoffrey circumnambulated the globe on more than one occasion.
Details of all this and much much more, of course, in the e-books to be found via this link to Amazon  here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1414419081&sr=8-1

Interesting article from City Lights Bookshop, San Francisco.  http://www.blogcitylights.com/2014/10/23/michael-mcclures-ghost-tantras/

Today's Conundrum. How Do I Become a Self-realised Soul?

Geoffrey's been attending Val Nark's Mindfulness and Self-realisation Training, every Monday at 7pm up at the new Community Centre.

Between that and his DebSoc and his Weekly Whingers Anonymous Group he's never in.  I keep forgetting that he's out. And then when he returns I forget that he's come back in, and I totter to the kitchen to put the kettle on.  I never put the kettle on!  For the past millenium I've always shouted through to Geoffrey to do it, quick as he likes.  I've even made my own tea, on occasion, due to this ghastly, new-fangled and disruptive routine.

It's not only that.  When he returns - and for days after - he insists on telling me All About It.  A blow-by-blow account of who brought the best biscuits,  who said what,  and endless theories about why they might have done so.

I don't mind the debating and the whingeing but mindfulness sounds like the biggest pile of - 

'Tuppy!'

'What?'

'I asked you to ping the finger cymbals after twenty minutes.'

'It's only been five, Geoffrey.'

'Oh.  It must just feel like twenty I suppose.' 

He's learning to meditate.  

Me,   I prefer to stare blankly out of the living-room window,  and smoke my pipe.  Preferably after a fry-up, four opium tabloids,  and two schooners of best Madeira.

Geoffrey used to do the same,  but he's fallen under the spell of Val Nark and her organic vegan lifestyle.

I doubt it will last.

Next Saturday at DebSoc, by the way, Val is debating naturopathy with the Ghastly Wilson.  Geoffrey's going along, of course, and he's so keen to impress his new so-called friends that he's baking his own biscuits and manning the 'Jackson' tea urn.  

More about that,  later....

Fyfe Robertson, the great TV reporter

I remember Fyfe Robertson from childhood and I used to do a fairly good impression of him (when I was nine or something).  Here he is on his way to interview Barbara Cartland.  You don't get to see the actual interview, sadly.

World Mental Health Day

Geoffrey and I were sitting by the fire enjoying a bacon sandwich and a read of The Bugle.
'Anything interesting today,  Geoffrey?'  I wasn't expecting anything beyond Val Nark's health-food cookery column (hedgerow jam last week), letters to the editor written by the usual whingers, and a review of Grudge Match written by my nephew Tuppence.  Grudge Match is his favourite film.  He says it bears several repeat viewings to bring out the subtle nuances and he's written nine different reviews, or 'exegeses' as he calls them.
I thought there might be a few seasonal used items for sale in the small ads., such as fire irons, fleece dressing-gowns and slippers.   Cherry Fulmar tried to sell Apsley (her husband) last week. Clearly there's desperate trouble brewing in the Old Rectory...
But more of that later.
'There's a feature on World Mental Health Day.' Geoffrey was peering through his pince nez.
'How dull.  Move on. What's for sale?  Any sentient beings this week?  Has Val Nark got another vile recipe in?'
'Not this week.  It's her who's written the feature on World Mental Health Day.'
'Really?  Bore me senseless.
'She does therapy and everything.  And it isn't just the hot stones and the sweat yurt.  She does proper talking therapy as well now. She does counselling Tuppy.  It's only forty pounds an hour. I think you should go.'
'Why?  There's nothing wrong with my mental health.'
'That's because you mask everything behind a cloud of self-medication.  The drugs and pipe tobacco and that.  You're numbing yourself Tuppy.  You're not in touch with your inner self.'
'Opium and laudanum and Madeira and whatever else I can lay my hands on, are not drugs.  They're simple comestibles, like bacon and tea.'
'Val says you're an addict.  She says you need locking up for your own safety.  She says you're a fool to yourself Tuppy, and a bad example to Tuppence and the younger generation.'
'But it's Tuppence who supplies me!  Ooops I mean...'
'Aha!  So you've turned into a grass Uncle Tuppy!   I expected as much.  Fortunately,  I'm clever enough to evade capture - plus, I'm prepared for any eventuality.'
It was my nefarious nephew, and 'supplier', Tuppence.  He stood in the doorway armed to the teeth with a brace of pistols and a bandolier.  Behind him stood two rats, glowering and smoking roll-up cigarettes made with brown papers.
'Are those liquorice papers?' I asked. 'I haven't been able to get those for ages.'
'Don't try to distract our attention from your loose lips Uncle Tuppy.  You've let me down and in a Big Way.  AGAIN, might I add.  No wonder I've had to go to Val Nark for regression therapy.  I've learned loads.  Did you know, for example, that that cup of tea that you're holding is a quarter full, not three quarters empty?  Isn't that a marvellous insight?'
'But it's cold, and I don't want it. Besides, I don't give a flying *insert rude word of choice*.  Put the kettle on Geoffrey, and bring the thumbscrews.  I want to know when and why you were discussing my comestible consumption with Val *insert rude word of choice* Nark.'

More on (most of) this later.

Read more about Tuppy, Tuppence,  Geoffrey, and Val Nark here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Part-Five-Selections-ebook/dp/B00FW19E0Y/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_1

Find more of my stuff here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

Mrs T-G Attempts a Croquembouche

Last evening Geoffrey and I huddled by the stone urn on the Fulmars' patio, watching the final of the Great British Bake-off on their 93 inch curved flat screen 3D TV, via their French windows.   It's lucky for us that they never close their curtains - aping people in the movies I suppose.  Take Sean Connery in The Untouchables for example.  Why, for pity's sake, if you knew that the henchmen of Al Capone were after you, would you.....

'Tuppy!!'

Geoffrey shook me awake and handed me a steaming cup of T-G Tips.

'Insufficient today Geoffrey.  It'll have to be the adrenalin shot to the heart.'
'Okey-doke.  I'll just give the syringe a flush through under the tap.  I was using it to baste the...'
'No you weren't.  Just get on with it.'

50cc of industrial-strenf 'aortic adrenalin' and three mugs of T-G Tips and four bacon sandwiches and five slices of toast and Val Nark's 'hedgerow marmalade' later....

'What did you make of that then?'
'I thought it was awful.  Anyone can bake a cake.'
'Can you bake a cake?'
'No.  But did you see the state of them?''
'That's not nice.'
'I'm only being honest.'
'All right.  What about the croquembouches'?'
'Excuse me?'
'Precisely.  Mrs T-G is making one At This Very Moment.'
'How do you know that?'
'I can sense it.  Not only that, I can smell it.'
'You can't.'
'That's right,  I can't.  But I've got a fair idea.  And it's the type of fair idea that makes me Very Afraid and Keeps Me Awake at Night.  Remember the black sausage rolls?'
'Oooh yes.  I do.   Everyone got...'
'Quite.   I'll raise you those and give you the Croquembouche.   Croquembouche translates as 'break in mouth'.  Need I say more, in this context?  Probably not, but I will anyway.  She's erecting a vast choux tower covered with toffee hard enough to crack your eye teeth on, right at this very minute, and she's seeking ways of insisting that we eat it, fuelled by rage and resentment relating to her Paris persona.  She's beaten that choux mixture and spun that sugar until it can take no more, and she's brooding until she's scared she bursts with the power of sheer hatred.  I'll even bet that she thinks she's bilingual because she can say 'Croquembouche' with a cigarette in her mouth and an air of 1950s Gallic aplomb.'
'Well! If she IS bilingual I dare say that's her own business; the T-G hasn't mentioned that before.  I suppose her Paris days must have broadened her horizons....'
'You're being disingenuous again.  Stop it, and start focusing on what really matters.'
'All right.  What does really matter, when all's said and done though Tuppy?  I've always wondered about that, but I've thought perhaps it's best to not know.  A little knowledge is a dangerous thing Tuppy.'
'What do you mean?'
'I don't know what I mean.  Let's talk about Mrs T-G again.  It stops my head from spinning.'
'Well, one French word and she thinks she's Jean Paul Sartre.  Next she'll be contributing a weekly philosophy column to the Bugle.'
'Oh yes - the Bugle.  Our new local free at the point of delivery newspaper. But shouldn't she be thinking she's Simone de Beauvoir rather than Jean Paul Sartre?'
'She's bilingual, remember, silly?'
'Oh of course.....I'd forgotten already..........'

More on the Bugle later.  More on Mrs T-G's Croquembouche later.  More on the rights and wrongs of calling people 'silly', later.....

Find more Tuppy & Geoffrey tales on Amazon http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Part-Five-Selections-ebook/dp/B00FW19E0Y/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_1

Poetry, and Psychogenic Osmosis

It was National Poetry Day yesterday.  I love poetry. But there's nothing worse than looking at your Twitter timeline and seeing folk banging on about it.  I dislike the feeling of being churlish and sour of spirit (where's the harm in tweeting poetry?), while at the same time I think it's quite a sane reaction; Twitter is no place to be, if you want to 'create' anything other than kitten pictures, puns and one-liners. The inner disquiet produced by all this, is enough to put me off writing, completely.  Well, for about five minutes.  Almost!
It's not really that though.  For me, the whole literary thing feels a bit distasteful and uncomfortable.  There are a couple of exceptions though.  There's a John Betjeman account I like, and a Richard Jefferies.
My favourite poet is probably Coleridge.  I'm fondest of him anyway.  It's probably the opium.  I've most likely absorbed quantities of it via his poems, through some form of psychogenic osmosis.
Frost at Midnight is probably my favourite Coleridge poem.  'The Frost performs its secret ministry,  Unhelped by any wind*.' 
I'm unlikely to have discovered it had I not bought a small second hand edition of a selection of his poems after browsing in a second hand bookshop about twenty years ago.  The bookshop closed ten years ago, at least, and now there is nowhere to browse, unless I go to a city.
Don't start me off complaining again, but you can't browse books on the internet.  You just can't.


There once was a girl with a plan
To cook with an old frying pan
She fried up some bread
And stood on her head
In a market in Uzbekhistan.

S.T. Coleridge (after)

*titters at the word wind

Now Reading - A Blaze of Autumn Sunshine by Tony Benn

I'm quite enjoying this book, which I borrowed from the local library.  It's infuriatingly unusual these days, for me to find a book that I actually want to read, in the library.  The library is no longer a place whose purpose is to encourage 'book learning'.  It is multi-functional.  It is noisy.  It hosts playgroups and old peoples groups and job clubs and computers.  And worst of all - it has a really terrible and rapidly-depleting selection of books.  As I've said before.
I'd like to read Benn's earlier Diaries.  He had so much irreplaceable knowledge and experience of our country's politics and the ways of government.  This final one is quite unavoidably depressing, because his health is clearly deteriorating, he's dealing admirably and bravely and realistically with a host of problems relating to his age, and he feels (understandably, at 82) that he's 'on his way out'.
I'm 54 and I often feel that I'm 'on my way out', as well.  But that's another matter. (or is it??) Growing old is no fun, but it's better than the alternative, as someone once said.
Anyway, it's a very interesting read.  I enjoy following politics, though I'm not a member of any particular party.  It begins in 2007 around the start of Gordon Brown's stint as PM and the financial meltdown.  Benn witnesses the demise of the Labour Party as he knew it, and the concurrent rise of the global economy.  He expects UKIP to thrive in such an environment, as indeed they do.  Nationalism, he says, is not the way forward - democracy is. He describes Brown as a 'managing director' of Britain - a Britain devoid of Trade Union power - but he writes more positively about him than Blair, saying that when he sees Blair and that 'awful smile', his 'blood runs cold'.   All in all, he's very depressed by the state of politics and who can blame him?  Just about everything ghastly he expected to happen, has.
I'm only on page 95 by the way.  However - I just, in the middle of writing this - skipped to the last chapter, 'Life after Diaries', in which he describes, with far more grace than I can envisage mustering in such circumstances, moving out of the family home and into a flat where he receives round the clock care.  Still little nuggets of information relevant to today's politics shine out - for example, he was Energy Minister in 1975 when North Sea oil was discovered, and he set up a system whereby 25% of the oil belonged to the Treasury rather than the oil companies.  This, had it been retained, would have ensured an 'oil fund' which could have been used in times of austerity - however, Thatcher sold it off.
Not the greedy and evil 'Westminster' we heard so much about during the referendum.  Thatcher.
Yes, that's the Thatcher upon whose back, by and large, because the Scottish electorate disliked her so, and they defined themselves against her, the SNP clambered to power.  After helping her INTO power, in the first place, of course.   That's the SNP whose membership has just overtaken that of the entire Libdems, and who are bankrolled by the unspeakable Brian Souter and two people spending their lottery winnings.
In my day the SNP were a joke. They had no policies, no underpinning philosophy except nationalism.  I don't think they've changed except they have much more power and influence, unfortunately.  People are off their heads and I only hope they gain some insight soon.
I'll say no more about politics.  Unless further referendum-style ghastliness ensues which seems likely to affect the warp and weft of my daily life.

Our Saturday Night plans: thinking of less cliched ways to describe Death.

'Does anything matter any more, Tuppy?'
'No Geoffrey.  Nothing matters any more, except the magical, the strange, and the unknown.'
'Isn't everything magical, strange and unknown, really, when you sit down and think about it?'
'I don't know about that.  I only know that my knee hurts, and my joints ache more in the morning with every day that passes, and if I'm not careful my back goes out when I'm least expecting it.  On top of that,  I can't manage any drugs harder than a junior aspirin unless I'm really in the mood to dice with Death.'
'Then you must come to terms with your own mortality.'
'I suppose I must, although I'll try my hardest to find a less cliched way of putting it.'
'All right.  So will I.'
'Great!  That's our Saturday night sorted.  Pen and paper Geoffrey - crack open the Madeira and the ginger crunch creams, and let's see what we can come up with!'
'By the way Tuppy....'
'Yes?  what is it?'
'You might try, as kind of a sub-set of our evening's task slash fun, to find a less cliched way of saying 'dice with Death'.  If it's not too much for you and all.'
'OK.  Fair point. I'll work on it.  But don't interrupt me again when I'm concentrating, or I'll tell everyone it was you who wee-weed in the community centre teapot last Friday, in a fit of pique after you failed - yet again - to win the DebSoc Whingers Anonymous Whinge of the Week Hamper.'


If they DO come up with any less cliched phrases, for anything, I will post them tomorrow.....

Meanwhile here is a link to more Tuppy and Geoffrey tales, on Amazon http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Fireside-Outcrop-Selections-ebook/dp/B007IKMM7E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1411817855&sr=8-1&keywords=sea+penguin+part+three

Whinge of the Week - the Snottish Refernerdernerderndernderndnernernum

'Is that the kettle I hear whistling or is it the sibilant campaign at the door again?'
'It's the sibilant campaign.  Should I tell them that we're ambi-franchised?'
'Yes.  Tell them we're sure that we're swinging both ways.  They can rely on us to do whatever they say.  Get them to come back next week, when it's all over, and we'll give them a game of cribbage and a custard cream.'
'Okay doke.'
Geoffrey was at 'DebSoc' last night.  Again.  He's been there every night for the last three weeks, and he's all clued up about the Snottish Referenernernerdernerndernnernernernernemum.  And so am I. It's all a bit much now.
'I'm bored out of my mind hearing about the Snottish Referenernerndernerndernernernernnemum!'  I snarled, when Geoffrey came back into the livingroom.
'I know how you feel, but it's imPORTant Tuppy,' he replied.  Besides, it'll all be over soon.  One way or another.  Have you decided which way you're going to vote yet?'
'I'm not going to vote at all.  I'm lying on the settee all day with a pint of Madeira, three opium tabloids, a multi-pack of square crisps and Michael Palin's Diaries.  I'm not even getting up to go to the toilet.'
'You're a disgrace.'
'It's part twenty seven of my fifty stage plan to become the world's fattest and laziest person.  Don't tell me I have no purpose in life.'
'I didn't!'
'Anyway, it doesn't matter to me who's in charge.  Life goes on - until it doesn't.  And there's nothing any of us can do about it.'
'Don't you want to get the government you vote for then?'
'No.  There's nobody I want to vote for.  They're all shit.'
'When you resort to foul language Tuppy, you've really lost the argument.'
'Bollocks.'
'Is that the best you can do?'
'Fuckwit.  Put the kettle on and make me a bacon sandwich.'
'What did your last slave die of?'
'Don't get stroppy with me!  I've got a dicky heart.  I need to be indulged at all times.'
'All right.  But really Tuppy, you're language is...'
'I know.  I'll try to stop swearing but it seems to be beyond my fu- sorry - my control.  Shit-bum.'
What was happening to me?  Tourettes syndrome, perhaps?
You may or may not remember that about a month ago I swore at little Chelsy, the Fulmar's three year old niece, who is currently staying with them.  I was worried that she might tell Uncle Apsley and Aunt Cherry about my over-reaction and my awful language and that ghastly revenge would be wrought, but so far so good.  Chelsy has kept her mouth shut.  This might be because I've been providing her with a constant supply of Froobs, but I'm not sure.
'I like you Uncle Tuppy!  You're my betht fwend evva!  get me more Fwoobth!'
'That child will get sugar diabetes, Tuppy,' warned the Ghastly Wilson. 'You mark my words.'
Nobody Hereabouts has ever marked his words and nobody seems any the worse, so I'm sure Chelsy will be fine.
Anyway - I am planning to spend most of tomorrow on the settee with a bag over my head (one with plenty holes in), but late in the night we're going to go over the the Fulmars' for a 'Refernerdnernernernedernenernernernernernernemum party, to watch the results coming in on their 97 inch curved screen 3D TV.  They haven't invited us but we're going anyway.
And at dawn,  Dave and Valerie Nark are planning to light bonfires to celebrate the bright new dawn of a bright new Snotland.

After that,  I expect that we'll stagger home and have a bacon sandwich.

Find my Sea Penguin e-books here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sea-Penguin-Fireside-Outcrop-Selections-ebook/dp/B007IKMM7E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1410973253&sr=8-1&keywords=sea+penguin+part+three 

Another day closer to the awful vote.  I wish I could see a positive side to all this. I can't relate to the Yes campaign at all, and that disturbs me profoundly, because according to the polls, half the country is behind the Yes campaign.  It's really disturbing to feel such a gulf between how I perceive things and how the other half of the country perceives things.
I look at images of my countrymen (for want of a better word) waving flags and cheering and painting their faces blue, and I feel like I'm on another planet. I can understand people wanting to get rid of the Tories, but I cannot for the life of me understand this intensity and nationalistic zeal.
I see people being interviewed on the TV and it scares me because I honestly cannot relate to their fervour or to what they say, and I feel I need to because on Friday morning they could be leading a victory parade and making plans for a whole new country.  MY country - or what was.
I read an article today about 'anarchy for Yes'.  I'm quite well-disposed to anarchy as long as it stays well away from me and my life, i.e. in the ether of the theoretical realm.  We are talking about Real People being affected on every level here - Real People with lives, children, mortgages, jobs, credit cards, aged parents,  illnesses - the paraphernalia of 21st century life.  What relevance does - or rather, should - anarchy have for them?  How self-indulgent and cruel to talk of 'anarchy' and a total change of regime in that context.
The whole campaign has been utterly ghastly and I cannot wait for it to be over.  I pray that it's a resounding no, but I'm preparing myself mentally and spiritually for a yes.

This is now for sale in my local Co-op - first time I've seen it there in twenty years.  I'm sure it must be a 'sign of the times'.
I'm feeling more relaxed today.  I'm 'indyref'ed out.  The whole thing has tipped over from the febrile anxiety stage into a ghastly spectacle with celebs tripping over each other to join in.
I'm still going to vote No.  The Holyrood elite are worse than Westminster - and that's saying something.  And there's no 'second chamber' in the Scottish parliament to put the brakes on them.
Brian Souter anyone? 80s pop star Pat Kane?  Franz bloody Ferdinand?
Heaven preserve us.
Obviously it's all a hugely more serious matter than the bandwagon-jumpers currently make it appear.  
I passed a No stall yesterday.  They were handing out wee Union Jacks.  I've never waved a Union flag in my life and I won't start now.  And I'm still voting No.
It's a journey, eh?  A bloody great long one.

Right.  Regarding the prospect of a Yes outcome, I think we've moved, today,  from shock and crisis mode through grief and dismay mode through victim mode through to coping mode.  We've had to pull ourselves together, and think, how do we face this independence carry-on, if it happens, in a positive way that feels right to us?
We now have a Plan A and a Plan B.  And we're working on a Plan C.
It's not a bad thing actually because it refreshes and focuses the mind.
This is a totally bizarre experience.  I intend to vote no, for practical reasons and because I prefer to keep the UK together, and face its undoubted problems along with the other three countries.  If there is a No vote,  perhaps it will bring the promised change that will help those that need it. I think there is just as much chance of that happening within the UK as there is within an independent Scotland - but only if people remain engaged with politics and make their voices heard, loud and clear.  I think that in an independent Scotland, a self-interested 'Holyrood elite' will immediately replace the despised 'Westminster elite'.   And when I consider who that might include, it's not an inviting prospect.
'This is what the people of Scotland want...' Really?  I'm a person of Scotland, and I don't want what you want.
I'm not keen on the public face of the No side, either, although I am definitely a No voter.  The celebs that have come out in support are not people for whom, by and large, I have a huge amount of time.  But the Yes lot are far, far worse.  The whole celebrity endorsement thing is horrendously cringey across the board.
Looks that way from where I'm sitting, anyway.
I feel like a threadbare old buzzard, perched on a telegraph pole, watching events from a distance through squinting eyes.

Today I saw three sea eagles.  Normally this excitement would dominate my brain for at least three days before fading, gradually.
Not today.
Sodding independence referendum. My emotions lurch from fear, to anger, to disgust, to hope, to dread, and back again, with a touch of astonishment thrown in here and there.
Saltires everywhere.  Demonstrations outside the BBC. A general feeling of aggression and threat.
I can understand the thuggery that goes on.  People's feelings are ramped up and that is how some people behave, at such times. That doesn't appall me. What does appall me is the arrogance and smugness of the artistic community.  I'm shocked that there are no dissenting voices, no-one who challenges the nationalist line, nothing remotely controversial in terms of artistic content.
I don't want to be part of any of that.  I've considered going along to writing events - I'm not much of a joiner-in, so I never have - and I certainly won't now, if I'm going to be surrounded by delirious yes-men and women, belching on about independence and building their careers on it.  Is there nobody who disagrees with them?  I even read something about change not being possible without pain - so the feelings of people like myself (no voters) don't matter - we must be sacrificed for the greater good, apparently.
My blood runs cold.
Thank God for the internet, where you can speak to a world-wide community and borders (for now...) don't matter.
Goodness only knows what is to become of us over the next week.

Sorry - terribly miserable posts at the moment.  Latest polls show that Yes have an eight point lead.  I'm sick at heart and really cannot face living in Scotland if they win.