The Prematurely Ageing Process

‘I think you’re a bit younger than me,’ said my client, as I was inspecting her ear canals for wax.

‘I think I am a little younger,’ I said. She was seventy-eight.

‘Probably late fifties, early sixties?’ she suggested.

I tried not to burst into tears.

After she had departed, I marched up to the reception in the surgery where I work.

‘Louise,’ I said. That lady said I looked late fifties/early sixties! Help me here!’

She adopted her kindest expression. ‘What are you?’ she asked gently, ‘mid-fifties?’

I popped out at lunch-time to get some Oil of Olay.

**

My Sydney-based Second Cousin Once Removed, or Phil, as I tend to call him, a compulsive Parkrunner, has made noises about adding the Portobello Parkrun to his list of conquests next year. And he wants me to join him.

In an effort to look like I know what I’m doing, especially as he’s coming all the way from Australia, not to mention having been encouraged back into running by a recent episode on the way to work, which involved me simply sitting down and my belt buckle exploding, I joined the growing crowd in Figgate Park at an unearthly hour on Saturday morning. I found a hi-vis-clad volunteer and confessed this was my first venture into the world of parkrunning. He was very reassuring. And so I set off on the leaves-covered path, three times around Figgate Park and a dash to the finish. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be all that dashing at the finish.

Halfway round the second lap I found myself tucked in behind a female runner. She was wearing a t-shirt with “Speed of Light” printed on the back. I never got to see what was printed on the front, and it was only a little while later that I couldn’t make out what was on the back either, as she receded into the middle distance. It was around this time that the proper runners started lapping me, calling out unnecessary and unhelpful encouragements as they wound up for a sprint finish.

I struggled on and finished the course in 132nd place, out of a total field of 221, which I consider to be reassuringly mid-table. I was also 10th in my age category, which – to avoid any misunderstanding and confusion – is the 40-49 category. For a few months longer.

Skye, the Scottish mainland, Sunday

Sunday morning I drive down through Skye, on proper two-lane roads, through the towering Cuillins, as the rain begins to fall, and join a swelling logjam of coaches and camper vans. Sunday, I guess, is getaway day. 

I stop for coffee in Broadford, and the queue is out the door. After the calm and quiet of Lewis, it feels like a seething mass of humanity.

Then on a tip from a friend, cutting right onto the road less traveled, a narrow single-track road which wends and twists its way up, up, up and over, yielding spectacular views at the top, even on a grey day.

Down eventually to a ferry terminal, which is a hut beside a slipway. The ferry is on the far side of the loch, loading cars. It’s just me and the midges on the Skye side, as I discover when I get out of the car to take in the view.

It has a rustic feel, this ferry. It berths alongside the jetty, whereupon a wild-looking mountain man manually wheels the turntable containing the cars (three in this case, it can take six) until it diagonally overhangs the slipway, the ramps are thrown down, and the cars exit.

I drive on, a big Mercedes SUV follows me. The crew disappear into the wheelhouse and stay there for some time. I begin to worry that they won’t sail without a minimum of three cars, but in due course they reappear, the boat sets off, and Mountain Man swings the whole turntable round so that we’re facing the shore. 

Then he appears at my window. He’s standing on the edge of the boat, outside the safety railings, and takes my payment with an iPad in one hand and a wireless card reader in the other. Nothing, one feels, could go wrong in this scenario.

The road on the mainland is very reminiscent of its counterpart on Skye, single track, but with a better surface. It climbs dramatically and then descends, affording breathtaking viewpoints along the way, with many pauses in the journey forced by procrastinating sheep on the road.

They feel reassuringly familiar – the single track, and the sheep – but eventually I turn right onto the A87, rejoining the great Sunday caravan southwards, where the roads are sensible, and the sheep are safely behind wire fences. 

Onwards through Glen Shiel, Glen Garry, and Glen Roy, where I clock up the 1000th mile of the trip. By the time I reach Edinburgh I’ve notched up over 1,100 miles, and – it turns out – put on a couple of extra kilos to boot.

The forty minutes of extra daylight I gained by going north are suddenly lost again, and Edinburgh feels dark, and cold. And so… back to normal, back to busyness, back to work. Back to having to lock my car again.

Until the next time.

See you again, Isle of Lewis.

Harris, Berneray, North Uist, Skye, Saturday

Am up before the dawn to make an 0825 ferry from Leverburgh, on the southern tip of Harris. When booking the ferries for this trip months ago, I hadn’t appreciated the distances involved, and the non-directness of the roads.

Still, the roads were quiet, apart from the promised deer, who were out in force, along with the ubiquitous sheep, and plenty of rabbits.

Just as I officially cross over into Harris, the sun climbs above the hills, and mist rises from lochs and burns. It’s a beautiful sunny morning, and breathtakingly still.

The ferry from Leverburgh weaves through multiple little islands on its way to Berneray. On arrival I refuel with coffee and coffee cake, before driving over to the west beach, parking and walking across the machair and through the dunes.

The west beach is predictably stunning, and stretches all the way up the west side of the island.

Am dog-tired from my early start and the ‘mild’ winds robbing me of sleep the other night. I find a little hollow in the dunes sheltered from the cooling breeze, and catch forty winks in the sunshine. 

From there I drive down into North Uist, finding a food van on the west side, which serves me an epic scallops and Stornoway black pudding roll. Plus a traybake. I sit outside with a view across to islands I cannot name, and a crossword that I cannot finish.

After a brief diversion down into Benbecula, I drive to Lochmaddy, and a 1645 ferry to Uig, Skye. Arriving slightly early, I have tea and coffee cake at a nearby cafe before boarding.

I have to nap on the ferry due to the excessive cake-eating.

On arrival into Uig, I find a pub showing the Ireland v Tonga game. The pub smells strongly of wet dog. Watching games in pubs is fun when there’s a large crowd engaged in watching. When you’re almost the only person interested in the game, and have to crane your neck every so often as someone playing pool is blocking your view of the screen, it’s less involving.

Sometime during the first half I retreat back to my Airbnb and watch the rest of the game on a smaller screen. Ireland run out comfortable winners, but there are sterner challenges to come, with South Africa and Scotland due up in the next few weeks.

Lewis & Harris, Friday

It’s a lovely, sunny morning. I decide to head back to Reef Beach, once again passing Cliff on the way, where there’s a decent swell and quite a few surfers in the water.

The water at Reef is once again turquoise, and feels a very similar temperature as it did on Tuesday at Luskentyre. I am the only one in the water. I float on my back, and drink in the view to the north where there is the beginnings of a rainbow rising out of the water and disappearing into a dark cloud, just to the west of the island of Pabaigh Mòr. Just then it feels like stingy seaweed wraps itself around my right forearm. I fling it away. Realise it was the tentacle of a jellyfish. It isn’t particularly sore and am not quite sure what to do but I don’t want to continue swimming so I leave the water and get changed.

I take a couple of antihistamines, and some medicinal hot chocolate from my Isle of Harris flask. Great hot chocolate is, I reckon, more about the context than the contents. The best hot chocolates of my life have been at the top of a snowy mountain towards the end of a great ski day, and from a flask after a swim in the sea.

After a visit to a pharmacy in Stornoway, where I am assured that antihistamines will take care of the jellyfish sting, I carry on up to the the Butt of Lewis, which features a Stevenson Lighthouse. The Butt of Lewis is the most northerly point in Lewis, and reputed to be the windiest place in the U.K., but there’s not a breath of wind today.

After a nap back at the Pod, I drive to Crust, a shipping container in a field near Leurbost which has been converted into an excellent pizza kitchen, with a fabulous view of the Harris hills.

Tosh and Ged come out to meet me to say goodbye on my return, as I have an early start in the morning. “Watch out for deer,” they warn.

Lewis & Harris, Thursday

The wind remains high all morning. Tosh invites me in for a coffee, and brushes away my suggestions that the wind was strong last night.

“The Pod has survived much worse than that,” she assures me.

I head over to Callinish to see the standing stones, and do a walk around all three sites. Wind still very strong (by my standards), and at a point in the walk when it’s at my back, a rain shower blows in, and thoroughly drenches the back of my legs. Otherwise I remain dry.

I make another attempt to find the Bothy. It takes me three or four passes along the cliffs, but eventually I manage it. The wind is still incredibly blustery, but it’s blowing off the sea, so if anything it’s keeping me more safe. The waves pounding and crashing into the sea stacks, exploding into spray, is a spectacular sight. 

The Bothy is a very special, near-magical place, beautifully-designed and built on a shelf in the cliffs. It has three windows, one with views westward across the sea, one of the cliffs and sea stacks to the north, and one in the roof. It would be a dramatic place to spend the night.

In the evening I have dinner at Uig Sands, a fine dining restaurant with an even finer view through floor-to-ceiling windows across the beach at Uig. My server brings me plate after plate with very small amounts of food on them, but what’s there is deliciously tasty.

I drive back to the Pod in the twilight, with the lochs shining light blue against the darkened hills.

Lewis & Harris, Wednesday

The forecast is for rain to come in the early afternoon.

I head towards Reef beach. Driving on the island has presented me with a difficult choice. On the one hand, the roads are frequently single-track, and demand caution when going round blind corners. On the other, the surfaces are very good, and the roads wind, weave and bend up hills and through valleys, which – in a small car which holds the road well – makes it great fun to open the throttle and let rip.

Taking the second approach this morning, I fly round a blind corner and slam on the anchors upon suddenly finding myself in a three-car traffic jam. A couple of workmen are repairing a pothole in one of the passing places, and while neither of them thumps a staff on the ground and screams “You shall not pass!” … they might as well have. And so we wait, and watch.

On my way to Reef I stumble across Cliff beach, where the waves look epic, and may have only recently become so, as there are a number of surfers suddenly suiting up and running across the sand towards the surf.

I agonise over going in (for a swim). I reckon the rain’s not far away, and so decide against it. I drive on to Reef beach, which is also beautiful, and calmer. The clouds arrive shortly, and put an end to my swim plans.

I circle round the peninsula via Reef village, and back to Uig, coming across the very same workmen fixing another pothole.

Ordering a toastie in the Uig Community Cafe, I look up to see that nothing whatsoever can be seen through the windows. The weather has officially closed in.

I write some postcards (postcards, I am delighted to discover, are alive and well on the Isle of Lewis), and visit the local museum, learning a lot about the area’s Norse history, the Highland Clearances, and the Lewis Chessmen.

It’s a thunderously windy night, and the Pod creaks and groans. I am convinced the whole thing will lift off the ground at any moment and deposit me in a nearby loch. This doesn’t happen, and I eventually get to sleep around 5am.

Lewis & Harris, Tuesday

Having no breakfast materials, I am up sharp and at the only shop for miles in time for its 9am opening to get bread, butter and milk.

It’s an amazing shop, very well stocked with all manner of foodstuffs and other things. Sadly they have no flasks, as I was hoping, having realised at some too-late point on the A9 that I had left mine at home. I pick up a hat instead, which I accept is not technically a good substitute for a flask, but one can never have too many hats.

The sun is out. My hat is not even needed. I decided to head south to Harris and maybe Luskentyre for a swim. Am wary of going in for a swim alone, and the beaches here are renowned for being deserted, but Luskentyre is, I understand, pretty famous, so I can be sure of a few folk floating around. Perhaps literally.

The drive south proves to be epic in the September sunshine, with gorgeous vistas at every turn as the road climbs through the hills.

Luskentyre beach, I discover, is at the end of three miles of properly single track road, which takes a certain amount of navigating, and proves to be reasonably busy, in that there were about fifteen people there.

The beach is gorgeous, with turquoise water framed by the hills of Taransay beyond. I swim for about twenty minutes, no wetsuit required. I like to think I spoiled a reasonable number of Instagram shots.

I stop at a beach hut on the way back out, pick up an Isle of Harris-branded flask and have a cup of tea on a bench with a stunning view over to Seilebost.

Back at the Pod, I make dinner with some locally-smoked salmon, and walk back to the Mangersta Cliffs, hoping to find the famous Mangersta Bothy which my elusive friend had alerted me to, but I fail in my quest. Instead I unexpectedly find a bull, who gives me a baleful look, and I beat a hasty retreat back to the Pod.

Tonight it’s a clear night, the sky is packed with stars, and maybe even a slight aurora on the northern horizon.

Lewis & Harris, Monday

On Monday, I catch a ferry from Ullapool to Stornoway, for my first proper trip to the Isle of Lewis.

Following a lovely lunch and a sunny clifftop walk with an elusive friend (known for four years but never met) on Point, I head south out of Stornoway, turning right at Leurbost and all the way over to Mangersta on the west of the island. It’s an amazingly scenic drive, vast swathes of machair punctuated by lochs, rocks and hills, and the sun in a bright blue and white sky over the bigger hills of Harris to the south.

The two-lane highway on which I started quickly gives way to a single track road with passing places, curves and dips.

I check in at the Mangersta Pod, and meet Tosh and Ged – my Airbnb hosts. Tosh is from Lancashire originally, but moved to Lewis over fifty years ago. The Pod has a small hob, microwave, fridge, shower room, and – mercifully as I have zero 4G reception from anywhere west of Uig – wifi.

After a quick dinner, I embark on my second clifftop walk of the day, encountering numerous sheep but no humans as I tramp through marshy fields to the edge of the cliffs, spectacular sea stacks, and over and down to Mangersta beach. The beach is stunning. Sadly it’s not safe for swimming.

A squall comes out of nowhere, and I take emergency shelter in the lee of a rock.

The rain passed, I watch the sun go down over the Atlantic. It occurs to me that – coming this far north – I’ve gained twenty minutes of evening light.

I walk back to the Pod through the gloaming. As I settle in for the night it’s astonishingly quiet and very, very dark.

Footballers saying sweet F.A.

Scotland, like the rest of the UK, and – I assume – Europe, is in the grip of a cold snap. We had a moderate fall of snow in Porty a week ago today, and although that (and the snow that fell two days later) has now melted, temperatures have mostly remained below zero. I can’t remember such a sustained spell of freezing weather here. No doubt this is due to global warming, which seems ironic. 

It saddens me greatly to read of glaciers melting and shrinking. If it’s any consolation, I found some small glaciers had formed on the inside of my living room windows a few mornings ago, although I suspect they won’t go any way to offsetting the damage being done in the Alps and elsewhere.

A few months ago, I began leaving the butter out of the fridge, so that it would be more spreadable on my toast of a morning. Now I’m considering putting it back in the fridge, to soften it up a little.

While Britain freezes, meanwhile, we’re watching a World Cup played in (mostly) high temperatures in Qatar, a tournament dogged by controversy and allegations of corruption, which seems par for the course. It was, after all, organised by FIFA.

But this year there’s been a fair bit of bleating from various ‘progressive’ nations about Qatar’s various human rights violations, with respect to immigrant workers and treatment of the LGBTQIA+ (I may not be up to date with with acronym, and so will use ‘LGBT’ from here) community.

I fully expect (having not read up on it fully) that Qatar is indeed guilty of many crimes in these regards, and abhor any such human rights abuses. But I find the responses of the various FAs and the players themselves distinctly underwhelming.

If they (the FAs) were so upset about Qatar being chosen as the venue for this World Cup, they could have boycotted it. Not turned up. That would have sent a serious message to FIFA, and to Qatar. Would they have been financially sanctioned by FIFA? Probably (I don’t know).  Would they have lost out massively, financially? I’m sure they would. Would some players have lost their only opportunity to play at the highest stage (if indeed it is the highest stage in football, these days)? Almost certainly.

Too high a price to pay? Maybe. 

While Qatar are no doubt guilty of various crimes as alluded to above, I don’t remember anyone complaining about the World Cup being held in the USA in 1994. The USA, perhaps, can’t be placed in the same category as Qatar, but are likely responsible for variously bad behaviour both within and without the borders of their own nation. So, I imagine, are all countries, really. If the World Cup was ever held in England or the UK, the finger could be pointed at us for various misdemeanours. Especially if history is taken into account.

So if we’re going to hold a World Cup in an actual country on earth, and not on a neutral venue such as the moon, then let’s expect that the host country probably isn’t a shining light, morally-speaking. It seems a safe assumption. And if the nation in question really has ‘crossed the line’, then have the strength of your convictions and boycott the thing. Although the question remains for me – who gets to define where the ‘line’ is? If we – as humans – have taken it upon ourselves to decide what is right and what is wrong, then which of us gets the final say on what is and what isn’t?

At the start of the tournament, several captains of European nations announced their intention to wear armbands supporting the LGBT cause. Until, that is, they were threatened with the sanction of…being booked. Would this have hurt them (the captains) personally, and harmed their teams’ chances? Of course. But how much do they care about these causes they purport to support, if they aren’t prepared to make even the smallest sacrifice to make the point? It all looks like shallow posturing.

In 2003, Zimbabwe’s Henry Olonga and Andy Flower wore black armbands in a match in the Cricket World Cup, being held in South Africa. They publicly stated why – to “mourn the death of democracy” under the Robert Mugabe regime. Were they sanctioned? Olonga received death threats, never played for Zimbabwe again, despite being only 26 and in his prime, and was forced to live in exile.

Footballers, if you want to show support for a cause you believe in, please do so. If you will only do this if it’s convenient and doesn’t cost you anything, please don’t bother.

Stay warm, Britons. And Happy Christmas, if I don’t write before then (as seems likely…!)

State of the Union

Friday, 16 September 2022. 

I’m on the way from Edinburgh to London, much like the Queen a few days ago. There’s a fraction less media attention on my journey, which is perhaps just as well, since I noticed on leaving the house that my trousers were already travel-stained. I like to think of this as an ecologically-sustainable wardrobe approach, and know that it will mitigate the disappointment when I spill something on them in the train, as will surely happen.

I have an invite in my pocket, although it’s to my sister’s 50th birthday bash and not a state funeral. I expect the international dignitaries to be largely absent at my sister’s party, although who knows? She does enjoy a bit of pomp and circumstance. 

The past few days have prompted some personal reflection on the monarchy, the constitution, and the Union. On Monday and Tuesday of this week I made the trip into town, feeling surprisingly strong emotions in the aftermath of the Queen’s death, and aware that the presence—in Edinburgh—of her coffin, the King, and the Royal Family, was the rarest of events, possibly completely unique. Given that the lying at rest in Edinburgh only occurs when the monarch passes away in Scotland, it has never happened before, and may never happen again.

On Monday afternoon I walked most of the Royal Mile from Holyrood Palace to St Giles’ Cathedral, and along George IV Bridge, witnessing at every turn the outside broadcast trucks, TV gantries, cameras, reporters, and the beginning of the enormous queue of mourners. I cut a few of the corners and walked into George Square and the Meadows, where I bumped into an old friend. He had joined the queue there at 5.15pm and would eventually file past the coffin just over five hours later. 

I returned home. 

On Tuesday morning, after receiving messages from friends that the queue had lessened dramatically overnight, I made the trip back to the Meadows and joined the again-rapidly-lengthening line just after 11am. My queue buddies immediately in front were from Northern Ireland, and over the course of the next two hours we struck up a friendship, as we moved slowly but steadily through the Old Town, in sunshine and shade, on a beautiful September day.

On the stroke of 1pm I made it into the dignified, reverential atmosphere of St Giles’. With the line of people continually moving, there wasn’t time to stop and reflect at the Royal Standard-draped coffin itself. I found myself simply thinking “Thank you, Ma’am,” as I passed.

I am grateful to have had the opportunity, for I am grateful for her life, her service, and her sacrifice. 

I was saddened to hear of protesters, both in Edinburgh and now in London, holding placards displaying slogans such as “Not my King” and “We don’t need a head of state”.

I confess I am a little ignorant of the precise role and duties of a head of state, but on the basis that someone needs to represent us on the world stage, I reckon we do need one.

However, Edinburgh doesn’t really need the Scott Monument. Nor, for that matter, Edinburgh Castle. Perhaps we should raze them both to the ground and build some utilitarian pre-fab offices instead.

Or perhaps we should acknowledge that beautiful architecture, historical monuments, sculptures, paintings and art are worth holding on to. So too are things that link us to our past (even though our past hasn’t been entirely glorious from start to finish) and are part of the fabric and history of our country. 

It is, I think, the prerogative of the young, and students, to protest loudly about things. But I find myself, with advancing years, increasingly amused by those who seem to think that they get to choose everything about their life.

If you’re a citizen of the United Kingdom today, then King Charles III is your King. You might wish that were not the case, you might think the monarchy should be abolished. You have the right to hold those views and express them, too. But to say he isn’t your King is to deny a fact of life, and is as pointless as protesting that you’re not one gender or the other, although it is seemingly inflammatory to say such things, these days.

Should we have a democratically-elected head of state? Maybe, strictly speaking, that would be more in keeping with a democratic country. However, practically, would it make any actual difference?

I think my friend Jon should be head of state. He speaks well, and diplomatically, and is well-educated. But a friend of mine wouldn’t be head of state. Were we to get to vote for a head of state, we would be given the choice of a few candidates which had been shortlisted by some complex voting system or other. They wouldn’t do a better job of representing me than the monarch currently does. The risk would be that they would do a considerably worse job.

Queen Elizabeth II did a wonderful job of diplomatically representing the UK on the world stage. Who’s to say Charles won’t do the same?

We elected a new Prime Minister recently, or at least, the members of the Conservative Party did. Prior to that we did elect one as a nation, and arguably we didn’t choose very well. We don’t actually have a tremendous track record of voting for people of integrity, dignity and honour.

Later in the week I met some friends on the prom at Portobello for a coffee and catch-up. Talk turned to the prospect of Scottish independence. They are warmer to the idea than I am. I remain unclear as to how being independent would benefit us in any way.

I accept that Scots feel perhaps ignored by Westminster, and that the ruling Tories, bloated perhaps by the complacent corruption and excesses that a long hold over power seem to bring, do not represent them well. I understand that. But ruling parties come and go, and while the Tories have been in place now for a long time, it will not always be so.

Personally, I wouldn’t expect Scottish politicians, running an independent Scotland, to be any better. I put this to a pro-independence friend around the time of the referendum in 2014.

‘Ah, but at least they’d be our corrupt politicians,’ he replied.

Now, it may be because I’m not Scottish, but this seems like a weak argument. I am, for the record, Northern Irish, and grew up in the Unionist side of the ideological divide, and so perhaps I will forever be biased towards that viewpoint. However, other mindsets that I grew up with there I have now discarded, with an objectivity that comes with living outside the Province.

As a very happy and now long-time resident of Scotland, while I will perhaps never have the viewpoint that a true Scot has, I do have a right to an opinion on how Scotland should be governed.

And Scottish Independence continues to make no sense to me.

Along with the sense of being ruled from afar by politicians we didn’t vote for, I accept that Brexit perhaps highlighted a fault line and disparity in thinking between Scotland and England, since “Scotland voted to remain”, and “England voted to leave”.

This, surely, is a massive over-simplification. England is not a single entity, neither is Scotland. England, like Scotland, is a collection of diverse peoples with diverse views. From the independently-minded Cornwall, through the Midlands, Yorkshire and the North-East, I would wager that large chunks of England feel disenchanted with the ruling Conservatives and feel that the majority opinion on various matters doesn’t sit well with them.

This is the challenge of living in a democracy, and as a Union. It’s much like being part of a family. We don’t always get our own way. Often the louder voices shout us down, and we feel marginalised. I daresay many would say they didn’t vote for Boris Johnson, but—as a United Kingdom—we did. Being part of the Union is being part of the “we” and taking collective responsibility. 

It’s not perfect, but that’s life.

Over thirteen million English people voted to remain in the EU, but over fifteen million voted to leave. And England’s population being approximately ten times the size of Scotland’s, the big brother’s overall view held sway.

Is this galling for Scots? Perhaps. Certainly for the Scots who didn’t get their way. Presumably the one million Scots who also voted to leave aren’t feeling the same sense of grievance.  

What the Brexit result highlighted for me personally was how inadequate an instrument a binding referendum of this nature is. Your average Joe in the street, me included, is woefully incapable of making a fully-informed decision of such magnitude. It’s why we elect politicians, who—we hope—are more adequately informed about the ramifications of such decisions, or at least have advisers who are. 

But back to Scottish Independence. How would we survive as a small nation?

Right now, we do have a voice in the UK Parliament. We do also have a devolved Government that can take lots of decisions in the interests of the local population, as they see fit. But…Scotland is not a single entity, with one viewpoint. Given a future independent Scotland ruled (say) from Edinburgh, how long before the Highlands and Islands complain that they’re being ignored by the ruling classes who are out of touch with their needs and desires? How long before Glasgow and the West, with its very different mindset, revolts against Edinburgh? Where does it end?

If Scotland secedes from the Union, and joins the EU (as I understand it, not even a guaranteed outcome), would we not have discarded a centuries-old alliance with nations that we have a lot in common with (e.g. language, culture (with variations), shared history), and within which we do have a significant voice (no matter how it feels at times) in favour of a relationship with neighbours with whom we have very little shared history, very little in common, and as a brand new member probably dependent on financial handouts, very little influence and voice?

It makes no sense to me. Perhaps someone can explain to me how becoming independent will ever be worth the immense logistical and financial pain of separating two countries that have been joined at the hip for three hundred years.

Meantime, I remain a committed citizen of an imperfect United Kingdom, and a loyal subject of our new King, knowing that if I got the chance to personally select every member of all our Parliaments, and for that matter, the Royal Family, they would all still be imperfect, because humans are involved.