IAM not looking for any sympathy here, but will accept any small amounts that might be going. I am writing this article with a packet of frozen garden peas stuck down my trousers. This remedy was necessary after an accident involving the matutinal pot of mint tea. The glass teapot (purchased too cheaply, it now appears, in a Barcelona Chinese bazaar) disintegrated, sending hot liquid cascading over various parts of my person.

By far the most painful affected area was the groin. The treatment involved standing in a cold shower for 10 minutes. Then placing the bag of petit pois on the affected area until qualified medical help could arrive with the appropriate unguents.

Between the extremes of hot tea and frozen peas, the wee man did not know whether he was coming or going.

Even before the incident with the mint tea, I had not been feeling myself last week. When the English nation went into mourning as their football team failed to qualify for Euro 2008, I could hardly summon up a shred of schadenfreude.

Not so long ago, the slightest misfortune suffered by the England football team would have been the cue for expressions of malicious joy. As events unfolded at Wembley on Wednesday night, I almost felt sorry for the English fans.

My sentiment stopped short of sympathy, but there were definite stirrings of empathy.

I confess I did chuckle briefly at the final whistle, but only because BBC commentator John Motson wailed: "England are out, unless Andorra can score a goal against Russia in added time."

This is the kind of comment usually associated with Scotland's efforts to qualify for events on the world stage. In football terms, England are the new Scotland.

I can identify with and understand what they are going through, because us Scots have been there, more than once.

Having a dodgy goalkeeper? Been there. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory? Done that. Grown men crying after the game? Got the video.

It has to be said that the English do doom and gloom very well. In the wake of the Wembley defeat, one pundit said that there would have to be a lot of soul-searching but this would be difficult since England had lost its soul.

With my new-found empathy, I felt like putting a comforting arm around the England support and saying: do not worry. This is not a national crisis. You've just had a duff manager for the past 18 months.

Do not worry, it was only a game of football and they are an awfy good team, those Croatians.

Do not worry. Next summer, you will still have an excuse to buy one of those big-screen HD television sets. And loads of lager from Asda. And a new BBQ from B&Q. You will get to wave your flags, as you watch Andy Murray win Wimbledon.

I have been to see the doctor about this empathy with the English. He says not to worry. It is a result of the SNP winning the Holyrood election with the ensuing feeling that Scotland's future is more in our own hands.

The doctor says there are likely to be further symptoms, as England features less and less in the Scottish psyche.

I will cease to care what BBC London says about Scotland. I will even cease calling the organisation BBC London.

I will be unconcerned when Britain is referred to as England. The way things are going Britain will be just England and the Rev Dr Ian Paisley and his pals.

I will be unmoved by jokes about The Krankies and suggestions that Scottish cuisine is all about deep-fried Mars bars.

I will not be upset by being called a Jock. I will affect to be proud to be a Jock. We're all Jock Tamson's bairns. (Actually, a lot of us are Jock Tamson's bigots, but that's a topic for another day.) I will not fret when English politicians and commentators call us Scots subsidy junkies and tell us we must learn to live without the money growing on English trees.

Let's have a shot, I will say, at full fiscal autonomy for Scotland. Let's live off what we create in our own small country. We might just get by on the oil, whisky, water, farming, fishing, financial services, tourism, and the bits of industry that still remain.

And there are those other valuable resources like shortbread, Irn-Bru, Billy Connolly, and the Scottish sense of humour. Not to mention The Krankies and deep-fried Mars bars.

IT'S a strange business, this British preoccupation with forced repatriation. Let us examine two ongoing cases. The Home Office planned to spend £25,000 on a private jet to remove 14-year-old Kurdish girl Meltem Avcil and her mother Cennet to Germany. The decision to go for an executive-style eviction was taken after distressing scenes aboard the British Airways flight on which Meltem and her mum (with five heavy-duty security guards) had been booked.

If Meltem's testimony is to be believed, she and her mother suffered strong-arm tactics and some vile verbals during the attempts to force them to leave Britain. Meltem is a "failed" asylum seeker. She is also a schoolgirl who has known nothing except life in Yorkshire for the past six years. She has a pronounced Doncaster accent to prove it.

The UK government has abandoned, for the moment, its efforts to evict Meltem and her mother.

Also on the repatriation front, we have the story of Sahara, the hooded seal. Sahara is so-called because he was discovered lying on a beach in Morocco, some distance away from his normal arctic habitat.

He was overweight, lethargic and had lost his fur coat. The kind and caring people at the National Seal Sanctuary in Cornwall brought him back to Britain.

They put him on a strict regime and, as soon as his fur coat had grown back, took him all the way up to Orkney to release him into what they assumed were his home waters. Hey, it's the least you would do for a such a friendly, but let's not say clubbable, little seal fellow.

The trouble is that Sahara, instead of heading to the Arctic, just turned south. After a 1000-mile journey, tracked all the way via his satellite tag, Sahara was once more taken into custody by the seal police just off Bilbao in Spain.

He is currently undergoing medical examinations to establish if his homing devices are faulty before possible re-repatriation. It may be that Sahara would simply rather loll about a warm beach, sans fur coat. Sahara deserves freedom of choice. As does Meltem, the Doncaster schoolgirl.

THE current uncertainty in the financial markets caused by all those subprime loans has been good news for the people's bank, or Nationwide as it is known.

Savers fleeing Northern Rock have taken refuge in Nationwide, the world's biggest building society and famed for its prudence. Wise investors, such as the Buffer, have long appreciated the advantages of Nationwide.

It is a mutual company with its roots in the co-operative movement. It is owned by its 13 million members.

It was this socialist approach to capitalism that persuaded me to join Nationwide. Or it could have been the fact that Nationwide do not hit customers with hefty charges for cash machine withdrawals or credit card purchases abroad.

Or it could have been the Nationwide overdraft rate, which is lower than most other financial institutions. Nationwide has an unusual mission statement. It is their aim to charge customers as little as possible for their financial services.

What I like most about Nationwide this week is that they have invited me to come along to Hampden Park. The directors want to hear my opinions at a members' talkback on how the building society should be run.

Previous invitations from banks usually involved them wanting to ask me some searching questions.

Nationwide did not even charge me for sending the invitation. On the night, there will be a light buffet before the chat and a stadium tour and "further refreshments" afterwards. Imagine, a drink from your bank.

Nationwide could only up their game if they invited me to Hampden when there is a Scotland match on.