And it's here, in these few words, that I try to describe, with lies or truthfulness
something of my feeling for this land.

I am not Scottish.
I would have loved to be. To be closer to my children and my friends.
To be more in tune with those who happily stretch forth their hands to me.
In order not to forget so easily those who see me as a foreigner.
To help more adequately those who seek from me a smile or a song of solidarity.
I would like to be a Scot so that the established order - political, judicial, criminal,and social -might look at me with a less suspicious eye.
I am not a Scotsman. And everybody knows it.
But I have good reasons to be one.
Firstly, the word "Escocia" sounds so lovely in my own language. It makes me think
Of something rich and sweet and feminine: a delicate candy or a blue-tinted perfume.
Secondly, I suffer the same apparent shyness as the Scotsman, who, out of politeness,
is not accustomed to declare his feelings.
Thirdly, I need - as I need air - the breathing, the sighing, the lamenting of the bagpipes.
Fourthly, I would have loved to say: "My name is Hamish - or Ian - or John."
Fifthly, to recreate the sight of what I see as unusual: a joker in the Billy Conolly style.
Sixthly , I want to be a Scotsman for my friends, John and Annette.
Seventhly, because I can't stand it when the English beat us at football.
And, lastly, in order to feel more at ease in those dramatic Scottish landscapes.