An emigrant must be a fool

I left my country to spare my kids the national hysteria of the Messiah of Nations,
but in the end, they are even more confused than if they were raised there.
Perhaps that’s exactly what was to be expected. After all, even I’m no longer sure
who I am since two decades have severed all ties except one: my passport.
However, my new home doesn’t exactly make it easy to find a new identity.
If anything, I would call myself a Scot rather than a Brit, but that hardly matters,
given that I refuse to swear an oath to the king. So, I settled for an emigrant,
with all the obligations but without the most fundamental right—the right to vote.
This is the price I pay for staying true to my principles, although some might say
I’m just a stubborn fool.

Journal (The power to cause harm)

Does Suella Braverman—by claiming that multiculturalism has failed—suggest that we should all subscribe to some manufactured by the likes of her image of Britishness? Because even if I tried to fit that delusion, I have a really hard time guessing what that actually is I was supposed to become since, after seventeen years here, in the UK—in Scotland, to be more precise—I’d say there’s no such thing as British, at least where I live, and if you ask any random Aberdonian on the street who they are, you’ll most likely hear Scottish. I’m pretty certain the same applies to Wales and Northern Ireland, although the situation in the latter is way more complex. Even in England, people are still likely to call themselves English first rather than British (a lot depends on how you phrase the question).

Coming from a country that went through half a century of totalitarianism, I always feel an unpleasant shiver running down my spine when I hear a politician, especially a representative of the government who controls the security services and the police, utter such bold statements. They should know better that such words have the power to cause harm, which is why I’m horrified that she says them so casually, or in fact, uses them at all.

There is a saying in my native language that overzealousness is worse than fascism, and I’m afraid it fits this situation perfectly. I will keep Braverman’s words in mind next time I watch V for Vendetta, which has been my tradition every fifth of November for quite a few years now.

The lost caress of dosh

Practicality aside, there is a certain beauty to the old imperial coinage.
All those sovereigns and crowns and their halves, guineas, shillings,
and farthings—not to mention bobs, coppers, or tanners—are pure poetry
marked with the royal physiognomy. And while I appreciate the ease
of counting money after decimalisation, I still have a feeling something was lost
in the process—even more so once a quid became nothing but a virtual row
of zeros and ones spent with one careless swipe of a piece of plastic.