All seems to be well in dear old Blighty this fine spring morning.
The British economy is recovering rapidly after a prolonged slump. Employment is rising. Inflation is low enough to be inconsequential. Interest rates are low. The housing market is booming. The traditional rituals of summer – ‘The Season’ – will shortly be upon us, reassuring reminders of an ancient continuum.
But all is not quite as it seems. The isle is full of noises and many of them, unlike the Bard’s ‘sweet airs’, are discordant. The isle’s more fretful citizens, this writer (vaguely) among them, detect an underlying sense of unease that approaches the brink of foreboding.
Identifying the reasons is difficult. It would be easy if, say, the Russian armies were advancing westward across the central European plain and threatening invasion – as the Wehrmacht was doing in 1940. But
What troubles the Anglo-Saxon spirit is, or at least ought to be, not being able to work out the consequences in the event a couple of looming political events take a turn that might necessitate a radical redefinition of the country.
The first is the Scottish vote on independence. The defection of
The defection of a tribe of hairy, paint-daubed, chip-shouldering malcontents would not in itself bring me troubled days or sleepless nights. But if the Scots do quit the
And then there’s the vexing issue of
The consequences of the prospective dislocations being incalculable, why cause them. Doing the necessary calculations may not be beyond the wit of civil servants eager to perpetuate their careers – but what a waste of their time and our money.
I’m only asking. But I’m not hearing too many answers.
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