The Union is dead and everyone knows it; yet the elaborate charade rolls on.
The Citadel, Westminster, sad to say, centralised that once vibrant confederacy of regions completely out of existence over the course of many decades, a meticulous act of euthanasia which formally began with the Local Government Acts of 1972-73.
Those great council power blocs safely nobbled, asunder, nothing could hinder the brutal slash and burn de-industrialisation our State already had on its drawing board.
No choice, if London – and most importantly its square mile – were to come through the end of Empire triumphant.
The globe grabbing adventure, which – almost certainly more by historic accident than design – had nurtured and sustained great centres of power (mercantile and political) the length and breadth of these isles was over.
The sun had finally set.
And it was decided that the spoils of Britain’s coming long night – as even cursory consideration of subsequent events makes plain – would come first and always to the capital.
Six years later Thatcher set her hounds of The City loose to pillage fractured Britain from end to end.
The North was chopped up, sold off and, ultimately, sacrificed to what she and her acolytes held to be the greater good.
But now, this week, four days hence, the first light of a new dawn on the horizon.
For Scotland, first, come Friday, but then also perhaps the swathes of Britain ruthlessly strip-mined into submission and subsistence under four decades of Government implemented for and increasingly – thanks to their tireless lobby – by barefaced Robber Barons.
Will our Caledonian cousins find the courage to take this leap of faith? Of faith, ultimately, in their own communities, in themselves?
I fear not. The Better Together campaign, as relentless a barrage of scaremongering as I have seen in my lifetime, will surely have put the willies up enough of the old and timid for negativity to take the day.
But the figures , once broken down, will lay this truth bare.
Scots and the rest of Britain alike will see, that the future – if not the foolish fearful present – holds the certainty of change.
Regardless of this week’s result the pantomime draws to a close.