Scottish Independence

Separation threatens.

I feel like a mother polar bear standing on one piece of an ice floe as her baby floats away on another. 

I recall the horrible time when Pascoe was only seven.  We were boarding a London tube train and he hung back.  Suddenly the doors shut and I was swept away. 

“Wait there!” I mouthed, and signalled through the window to my tiny son, his eyes enormous with fear as he was left behind on the platform.

And today?

In January, Pascoe went to Scotland to undertake his PhD, Edinburgh to be precise. 

He is asserting his independence as a young adult, living many miles from us.

His quest for autonomy is mapping precisely onto Scotland’s own rites of passage.

However, I have to say that although he enjoys substantial devolution, he has never attempted to cut all ties.  He agrees that our family, spread from Cornwall to London to Northumberland, to Edinburgh is better  together.

So Scotland, don’t go.  Don’t make me take a passport and foreign currency when I visit my son.
Stay with us.