I have no right to comment on this. I hold a British passport but I don’t live in the UK. At least, I haven’t since childhood. Yet, though most of my growing up was done in the Southern Hemisphere, I was raised by parents who thought of Britain as home. Hence, I thought of the UK as home. Though, strangely, this was a fractured image. They spoke of a Britain their parents had defended during World War Two. Yet, my dad rolled his eyes whenever mum spoke of Wales, as if her pride was ridiculous, as if the notion of Wales was foolish.

I mean, why would anyone want to be Welsh when they could be English?

I caught my first glimpse of this prejudice in my family home. Though, at the time, I scarcely understood it’s meaning. I know now there was an historic precedence.

Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, Taffy came to my house and stole a leg of beef.

Rhymes like this were only the tip of a vast condescension. The Blue Books and the Welsh Not were a colder more present reality. The two World Wars weakened Wales’ hunger for self determination. People were seduced by the myth of Britain. If you wanted to get on in the world, they were told, you had to leave this foolish notion of Welshness behind.

Fortunately, the mood in Britain is shifting. Since 1998, Wales has had its own National Assembly. Scotland also has its own parliament. In September, Scotland will vote on the matter of independence.

I have no ‘real’ right to hold an opinion on this. My life daily life will not be affected by the outcome. But I do know people in Wales are watching, and waiting, and, even if I don’t have a right to an opinion, even if I can’t vote, something deep inside me says: Go for it Scotland!