This week, no chooks. No veg. No smallholding. A little bit of politics, as Ben Elton used to say (showing my age).
It’s the Current Big Issue everyone’s mithering everyone else about – the referendum.
I’m now getting tired of folk asking if we are a Yes or a No household. Every chat in the street, text, email, phone call. Yes or No? Yes or No? On The Big Day, will there be a ‘mebbes aye, mebbes no’ box for the undecided to tick?
I am aswithering voter. Until polling day, I am undecided, still weighing up the pros and cons, lurching from mebbes aye to mebbes no.
And there’s a lot to think about. King Soapy has been trying his best to convince everyone in Fair Scotlandshire that all will be OK come the revolution. Like the Millennium Bug, a whole load of hoo-haa that came to nothing. So it will be with the auld hindrependence, says King Soapy.
On the other side we have Sleekit Sir Dave of Englandshire, hoping to hold on to his home-nation empire with his smart hair and lovely smile.
Things have come a long way in Scotlandshire since Wee Mel wielded his enormous broadsword and shouted ‘Freeeeeee-dom’. But it’s now 2014 and Longshanks no longer leads armies across the border to kill/subdue The Locals. Modern-day Longshanks – me included – come over the border to live/work/buy goods and services, and contribute socially and economically to this country.
And the guid folk of Scotlandshire embrace them, unlike the Welsh, who went through a phase of being extremely unfriendly to English folk and burning their holiday homes.
The Young Mistress, a very deep thinker at 7, is concerned: ‘If we split up from England, it will take even longer to go and see Aunty Rupert, and everyone else’.
As we make regular trips into deepest Englandshire to visit aunts and uncles scattered from Hull to London, the Young Mistress is worried.
Turns out she has heard talk of ‘the split’ and imagines a fissure opening up between the two countries as Scotland slowly disengages itself from its neighbour.
In her mind it’s a gap so huge it will take ages to cross, or go around, causing our journey times to at least double. Bless.
At the moment, I am contemplating a completely different prospect.
Will Scots folk still have a British passport to wave at airport staff and bat all other nationalities out of the way with? As I always say, clutching mine when faced with queues of folk at check-ins in foreign climes: ‘Out of my way, British passport!’
Where will our teenagers go when they have gotten so gassed in Kavos that they’ve lost all their money, apartment keys and dignity after a 12-hour booze cruise?
Will the doughty fall-back position of the nearest British Embassy still be available? Perhaps King Soapy will forge a new Auld Alliance so we can pop into the French facility. Zut alors.
I swither on.