RARELY has one heard such frequent mention of "swithering" and its sister words.

We are, it seems, in thrall to countless switherers who, should they ever decide which way they're going to swing, will determine whether it's an Aye or a Naw. The English term for them is "undecideds". Not only does it not roll off the tongue, it looks ugly in print. Another guid Scots wurd is "ditherer", which is nearly as toothsome as "switherer" but not quite. In an Edinburgh cafe I met a self-confessed switherer who, as she sipped her latte, described how sometimes she was ready to vote Yes but at others, perhaps when her blood sugar was low, she was inclined to say No. Switherers, I told her, are the kind of folk who go into a store to buy a kettle and, after four hours or so of weighing up the pros and cons, still can't make up their minds which one to carry off. "What," she asked, "would you do to make me buy a kettle?" I told her that it would be nigh impossible to persuade her of the merits of one kettle over another and that the only way to make her happy would be to give her one for free. She acknowledged this was a solution of sorts but for the life of her couldn't see how it could be applied to the referendum.

THE phone rings in the east wing of my Musselburgh schloss. The Home Secretary takes the call, barking "speak!" into the handset. It is the Today programme, looking for Allan Massie who, as far as I am aware, is not currently residing chez nous. Momentarily, I am tempted to pretend I am he and begin to rehearse a few lines, suggesting that while I have been a Unionist all my life I have at last seen the light and will be embracing independence wholeheartedly and recommending that my legion of fans do likewise. Alas, the HS beats me to it and gives them Mr M's number. On such slender threads hang the outcome of you-know-what.

THE lull before the storm. Today's task was to find where they've put our post office. It was in Poundstretcher and is now in Poundland. Or possibly vice versa. Meanwhile, rumour has it that the handsome Victorian post office has reopened, so there one goes to purchase a second class stamp. Indeed, it is open but there are no stamps to be had. There are plenty in Poundland, though. Or should that be Poundstretcher?

OUR polling station is the local church hall where I used to attend the Life Boys and BBs. Much of my youth was misspent here, where I was taught semaphore, drilling (long before oil was found in the North Sea) and drumming. We were also taught first aid though I was so hopeless at applying a tourniquet that I was invariably the patient and never the lifesaver. But I digress. I am greeted outside the station by old friends on both sides of the great divide and feel bad that I am about to disappoint 50% of them. We do not discuss the pound or Trident or devo max but Sir Walter Scott and Neil Gunn, neither of whom have played as prominent a part in the great debate as perhaps they should have. As we chat, a young woman goes in to vote and is eager to let it be known where she is going to put her X. "I'm voting Yes," she declares, "for Tom Devine and Scottish history!" I jest not!

WHO would have thocht it? I refer, alas, to Clackmannanshire which was the first district to declare, spelling doom for the Yessers.

It was virtually all downhill thereafter. I was at Ingliston, the electoral hub, which is normally home to heifers and tractors. There were hacks from everywhere, including several from Japan who, one told me, never miss an opportunity to visit Scotia. BBC Ireland had sent a crew but had neglected to include a cameraman, which is OK if you're making a radio programme, less so if TV's your bat. At about 4am I got a call from Radio 4, probably because they weren't able to find anyone else awake at that hour. I was on after my dear amigo, Michael Gove, who spoke about devo max, which, I'm beginning to think is less of a policy and more of a person, like Max Mosley and Mad Max. When the result for the Western Isles was about to be declared a crowd gathered round one of the screens, only to be confronted by a Gaelic-speaking counting officer. My new Japanese chum asked if I could translate for him which, obligingly, I did, though the only Gaelic I have is "Stornoway black pudding". After the results were announced, the crowd melted away and their place was taken by a burly fellow who could have done with a spray of Brut. It was none other than Scottish Secretary Alistair Carmichael. As he digested the latest No good news, he exclaimed: "Fan-f******-tastic". What a class act!

A London radio station calls and asks if I am available to give its listeners the benefit of my wisdom. I am put on hold while William Vague, David Mellow and Doris Johnson chunter. Mr Johnson says he would like the Barnett formula to be redrafted to appeal to the burghers of Barnet. Thereafter, the presenter cannot help but compliment the London Mayor on his impressive barnet. Ho, ho! After a few ads, a weather forecast, a travel update and a reprise of the news, I am on. Like an Exocet missile, I launch into my spiel, the gist of which is "we wuz bribed, bullied and bamboozled into voting naw", whereupon the host swiftly pulls the plug. Incroyable!