Ten to seven this morning and the sun was peeking pink and orange through slits and slices in the grey clouded sky.

Six small figures rolled a row boat out of its enclosure by Portobello beach and scrunched it down to the sand.

They dragged the boat off its wheels into the sand at the edge of the sea and one of them retreated back up the beach with the wheels to retrieve the second boat. And another three small dark figures joined the first to accompany the boat down to water.

Then they stood, clustered around the craft, silhouetted against the brown grey sky. Discussing what? "They're trying to decide which one to launch first," speculated the people huddled impatient on the steps of the not yet open swimming baths. "Maybe they're discussing who should be in charge," snickered a cynic. "Democracy is time-consuming."

The boats were pushed out onto the water and the little people leapt in. Noses pointed out towards the open water. The clouds cracked apart over Fife and the sun shone sharp from above the power station opposite to light the sky with peach and amber and rose.

The tiny convoy sailed into the sun, guided by these - who? Self-satisfied No voters taking a very respectable salary from financial services companies who'd threatened to jump ship in the event of a Yes vote. Organic vegetable sellers worrying mildly about what will become of farming in an anti-EU United Kingdom.

Mothers or fathers hiding away momentarily on the wave-lapped sea before hauling their children out of snug sheets and sending them off to school to inherit a who knows what economy when the politicians have finished point scoring.

Unremarkable people pursuing a moment of uninterrupted freedom buffeted gently on a mild mannered golden sea in a vaguely anti-climactic what will happen next (as they've already forgotten about us - packed up and left their birds eye viewpoint stations on the top of Carlton Hill to return to comfortable caramel macchiato centre of the world complacency in London) Scotland.