Flower of Scotland

I have a theory that being an ex-pat makes you more patriotic. We left Scotland the day before my 8th birthday, and so, being "the Scottish one" has always been part of my identity, in a way that it wouldn't be if I'd grown up in Glasgow.

In fact, even long before we moved away, I was used to being the foreign one. We went to the States for a summer to visit my mum's sister and her family when I was three. That autumn, we went for a weekend to Aviemore and stayed at a hotel where there was a nightly show for kids featuring a mean clown. I know he was mean because when he asked all the kids where we were from, I put up my hand - having been used to this question in America - and replied "Scotland."

"Ach, I know you're from Scotland" he snapped, which was fair enough given that we were in Scotland at the time, but still, I felt it a bit harsh. I don't think I have yet forgiven clown-kind.

My patriotism even survived He-Man ruining my Highland dancing career in 1985. At the end of term, each of us had dance a presentation piece to the teachers to show what we'd learnt. Displaying a flair for the dramatic that has got me in plenty of trouble since, I borrowed my little brother's He-Man swords to use in my routine in the hope that the teachers would think I had figured out the Sword Dance on my own. Tragically, during the dance, I skidded, kicked the 'on' switch on the sword and had to finish the routine with red flashing skulls at my feet and a tinny voice proclaiming " MASTERS OF THE UUNNIIVVEEEEEERSEEEE" over the hi-diddly Highland dance music.

When it became clear that the teachers had noticed - the tears streaming down their faces was probably the first clue - I skipped straight out of the room and as far as Miss MacDonald's Wee Dancers of Kilmacolm are aware, have never been seen again.