They snuck downstairs at 4 am, holding hands on the couch to watch the BBC. More in hope than expectation it has to be said: they had seen the final polls. Results dribbled in: the Highlanders, more distrustful of Edinburgh than of London, were plumping for ‘No’; as dawn approached, the socialist masses huddled in the tenements of Glasgow were redressing the balance towards ‘Yes’.
Alas, it was not to be: a fifth column of public sector jobs and MOD contracts had sucked the vitals of Nationalist support. The disastrous result began to assemble itself on screen.
First light caressed the blinds. “Make the Saltire,” he commanded, pressing her onto the couch. Their act of union formed, grew, overwhelmed her. She barely heard the announcer, reviewing final returns from the Highlands, the Centre and the Scottish Borders: “It looks like ‘No, No, No’.”
Her only possible response ... her cry rang out:
“Yes, YES, YES!”