Many many years ago I went to party in Billericay in deepest Essex. It may have been a Christmas party. I was working in Inverness at the time. I think this was the time that my boss told me that if I failed to show up at the office at the usual time on following Monday morning I would be fired. And of course, several trains failed to show up at Billericay Station that evening and I only managed to get on the late night London to Inverness train by the skin of my teeth before it pulled out of the station. I'd spotted a panicky-looking guy on the tube ride from the London railway station where the Essex train came in to whichever station my train north left from. It turned out he was also running late thanks to the cancellation of so many of the trains from Essex but he knew a short-cut from the tube station across the rail yards to the platform the Inverness train was still, luckily for me, sitting at. Anyway, long diversionary story short; I got to work on Monday morning in time to save my job. Back to Billericay. The thing I noticed about the Essex residents at the party was the divide between those whose families had lived in the county for generations and those who were the children of recent arrivals. The long-established Essex folk were charming and seemed genuinely interested in Scotland; though I cringed when they called it "Bonnie Scotland" in the same way they probably would have if I'd kept referring to "Merrie Englande". The loud-mouthed and frankly obnoxious "No Civilised Life North of Watford Brigade" all turned out to be the children of people from North of Watford. Interesting, 'least I thought so.