0620: I walk downstairs with Solveigh a little bleary, but better rested than most days. After I put the coffee on, I realise that it’s the big day, the 18th of September. I put Solveigh in her high chair, give her some grapes after checking to see how her first tooth is coming in, and turn on the radio to hear if there’s any news about the referendum. But instead I hear a report from Syria. A BBC reporter has been given access to the Syrian Army on the frontline, where they’re battling either IS or the Free Syrian Army – it isn’t clear. The sound of bullets break ripple into our kitchen as the reporter announces that a firefight has erupted between the opposing forces. Closing his report, he reminds Solveigh and myself of the millions of lives displaced in the civil war. Shocked by the apparently rapid rise of IS, yet only a year on from bombing Syrian government forces, the US and the UK are at loss as to what to do. I wonder to Solveigh whether this could be an opportunity to pressure Assad to change his ways, in return for help, but doubt that such creativity has a role in the world of real politik.
1230: I tie into a spicy pasta salad and login to facebook. I see that a friend of mine has put up a video of some sad-sack Ukrainian politician being thrown into a bin by an angry mob. Vitaly Zhuravsky used to be in the government of former President Victor Yanukovich, but now has been relegated to entertaining people on social media. As we all know, after Yanukovich was also binned by the mob, sparking the civil war in Crimea and East Donetsk. A referendum of sorts was used to justify the secession of Crimea; the people of East Donetsk have not been so lucky and Europe (if we can call it that – isn’t that the nub of it all?) has seen the worst conflict since Kosovo. Of course, it hasn’t been just Ukrainians (or whatever they want to be called) that have borne the brunt of such violence, as the downing of a Malaysian airliner carrying, amongst other innocents, dozens of Dutch schoolchildren sadly shows. One hundred years after the start of the Great War, one wonders if people learn anything from history.
1645: I pick Dashiell up from nursery a little early so I can go vote. I try to explain to him what an election is and am tickled when he decides that he would like to vote Yes. We have a typically surreal moment along the bike path that starts when Dash asks me about when we’ll go on a boat again I mishear him and start droning on about the electoral system. Vote and boat: it’s an honest mistake. We roll up to the primary school, passing half a dozen Yes supporters and a lonely, slightly creepy No supporter (it’s not his fault he looks like Dave Lee Travis). After a quick pit stop for Dash – no sense introducing him to democracy with a full bladder – I mark the box next to Yes and let Dash put the ballot into the box for me. As we leave I feel elated at participating with my son in the most important vote in the history of Scotland. No one has been shot or been thrown into any bins. And whatever the result, I think we can all feel proud for that.