I woke up at precisely 06:10 this morning, accompanied by an alarming, meteoric bang, followed by another, and another and a few more, cut short by small rattling bursts of noise and banshee whistles as the dark of my bedroom glowed furiously in short and spontaneous flashes of light. Fireworks. We done it, Scotland is to be an independent country.
I was utterly wrong.
Every news app and website I visited in an eager manner confirmed that Scotland was not to become an independent country with the statistics of 45% Yes and 55% No. My jaw dropped, not in disappointment, despair or defeat but in unadulterated shock.
I was not alone in being woken by the thundering fireworks, we all woke up an hour early than we wanted to. My dad and I nonchalantly made our way down the stairs and switched on the television. Yet again, Scotland is not to be an independent country. Five minutes of switching news channels and we got bored, back to bed for forty winks.
At the bus stop, in the lunch queue, the canteen, the classroom, the walk home, the dinner table – the topic of conversation did not diverge.
A teacher tried her best to dry her tears before they ran down her cheek, a classmate of mine chanted tiresome songs of victory and the school’s population was down by around 20%. The atmosphere was impalpable.
Few were brave enough to ask another how they voted, the lion’s share of us avoided this question in fear of making foes of our friends and allies of our enemies.
On the school bus this morning, I was cough in the middle of a growling match between one boy from a junior year and a peer in his senior phase. If it were not for the bus arriving promptly at the school, I fear my head would have been chewed off erroneously.
The walk home was more of a tour of introspection. We (myself and some school friends) passed on our travels the Yes shop, an old betting establishment closed and hired out by the yes campaigners as a source of support and promise for the undecided. It stood dispirited, black and uninhabited. We chuckled a little in a reverent fashion, whilst one from our modest party jovially tried to open the door. It was locked.
As we hit the town centre, our ears were enchanted by the haunting mourn of bagpipes. I short-sightedly thought for a brief moment that this musician brought out his stereotypical Scottish instrument to boost morale and raise our vexed spirits. No. Adjusting my position, I marked the inconsiderate presence of a bag being used as a money collector in front of the bagpiper’s foot. Merely the executed idea of an ingenious commercial approach to achieving more than a few pennies from the ignorant public who, not unlike me, thought the man was doing this out of heart and soul. He didn’t fool me.
As our group split into our separate paths, I too found myself making the final leg of my walk home solo. I found myself in deep thought in my walking, unsure of exactly what I fancied for my dinner.
I was undecided right up until polling day, yesterday. I did vote, and my decision was far from firm. One of the boxes just and no more won my vote.
Therefore, I was neither contented or dissatisfied at 06:10 this morning when I found out the result of years of thick campaigning. The threats of both sides failed to move me and the blatant cries of loss and promises of an insecure future do not provoke any new emotions inside of me. I wonder if, when I go back to school on Monday if the atmosphere will have recovered a little, or if it will take longer for a country now divided nearly in two exact halves to pick ourselves up and make ends meet.
Que sera sera.