The View From The Border
by L M Blackburn
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: The Scottish Border struggles with the expectations placed on it in contemporary Scotland.
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The border shifted uneasily.
Such a great weight had rested on it for so long. It was hard work, to carry such a burden of hope and expectation.
The border was feeling a little tired, if it was honest. It had rather hoped that once the day of decision was over, it might get a break, one way or another. That people would simply stop expecting so much of it. Or at least feel freer than before to admit that an alteration to its nature could not, by itself, make all the difference.
But no, here they were again, still at it, arguing over how deeply shaded the line should be or perhaps how spaced out the dots. It should be flattered, it supposed, to be the subject of so much attention. But right now it rather fancied being left alone for a while.
It shifted again, to get more comfortable. It hadn’t visibly shifted for many years, of course. One of the oldest borders in Europe, they said. It was very proud of that, though the buggering about with Berwick had been a little painful and the business of the Debateable Lands somewhat ticklish.
Indeed, it had been worrying lately at the occasional talk of being moved south. It hoped this was just mischief-making but it was hard right now always to know who was being serious. The same with border controls. It didn’t like the sound of those. It imagined a series of little pin pricks along its length, akin to acupuncture, except not at all therapeutic.
The border liked being fluid and uninterrupted, running along the river. Not a wall. Not, emphatically, A Wall. If there was one thing which really pissed off the border, it was being confused with that bloody wall. That, and being described as running east to west.
Ach, it was no good. There was no position which was exactly right, no easy way to lighten the load. It would have to wait and see what they sorted out. The border itself hadn’t had a vote. That would have been ridiculous. Even if it had, it wouldn’t have known what to do: being a border, it could always see both sides. It had a view though (in fact it had many fine views) and it was this: a border should be valued, but never worshipped. It wished it had taken this line from a more profound source than a book about healthy relationships which had recently been dropped, or more properly hurled, into the Tweed. Still, it would do, if anyone ever thought to ask.
Meantime, it would wait, and bear the burden of expectation as best it could. Feel the flow of humanity over it, the workers, tourists and day trippers all going peaceably about their business. And of course a smattering of criminals, traffickers and smugglers, as well. But no invading armies, nor raiding parties. No bloodied, retreating wounded, except perhaps the odd rugby sevens team. If humanity these days sometimes seemed to invest rather too much hope in borders, that was surely preferable to some of the other things it had done with them in the past. Always worth taking the long view, thought the border, stretching gently the length of its hundred-odd miles, as once again the sky began to lighten over the North Sea. Yes, always worth taking the long view.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The Scottish Border struggles with the expectations placed on it in contemporary Scotland.
_____________________________________________________________________
The border shifted uneasily.
Such a great weight had rested on it for so long. It was hard work, to carry such a burden of hope and expectation.
The border was feeling a little tired, if it was honest. It had rather hoped that once the day of decision was over, it might get a break, one way or another. That people would simply stop expecting so much of it. Or at least feel freer than before to admit that an alteration to its nature could not, by itself, make all the difference.
But no, here they were again, still at it, arguing over how deeply shaded the line should be or perhaps how spaced out the dots. It should be flattered, it supposed, to be the subject of so much attention. But right now it rather fancied being left alone for a while.
It shifted again, to get more comfortable. It hadn’t visibly shifted for many years, of course. One of the oldest borders in Europe, they said. It was very proud of that, though the buggering about with Berwick had been a little painful and the business of the Debateable Lands somewhat ticklish.
Indeed, it had been worrying lately at the occasional talk of being moved south. It hoped this was just mischief-making but it was hard right now always to know who was being serious. The same with border controls. It didn’t like the sound of those. It imagined a series of little pin pricks along its length, akin to acupuncture, except not at all therapeutic.
The border liked being fluid and uninterrupted, running along the river. Not a wall. Not, emphatically, A Wall. If there was one thing which really pissed off the border, it was being confused with that bloody wall. That, and being described as running east to west.
Ach, it was no good. There was no position which was exactly right, no easy way to lighten the load. It would have to wait and see what they sorted out. The border itself hadn’t had a vote. That would have been ridiculous. Even if it had, it wouldn’t have known what to do: being a border, it could always see both sides. It had a view though (in fact it had many fine views) and it was this: a border should be valued, but never worshipped. It wished it had taken this line from a more profound source than a book about healthy relationships which had recently been dropped, or more properly hurled, into the Tweed. Still, it would do, if anyone ever thought to ask.
Meantime, it would wait, and bear the burden of expectation as best it could. Feel the flow of humanity over it, the workers, tourists and day trippers all going peaceably about their business. And of course a smattering of criminals, traffickers and smugglers, as well. But no invading armies, nor raiding parties. No bloodied, retreating wounded, except perhaps the odd rugby sevens team. If humanity these days sometimes seemed to invest rather too much hope in borders, that was surely preferable to some of the other things it had done with them in the past. Always worth taking the long view, thought the border, stretching gently the length of its hundred-odd miles, as once again the sky began to lighten over the North Sea. Yes, always worth taking the long view.
About the Author
Born in St Andrews, L M Blackburn is a freelance
researcher who now lives in Edinburgh, thinks we need more (intentional) satire
in Scottish politics and whose last story, The
Shroedinger Solution, imagined what might happen if the Referendum was a
draw. It was published in Issue 3 of The Grind Journal.