I have been buying records there since 1998: a decade of love, passion and adventure. Initially, when I had no office, I would shelter from the rain while browsing though the electronica/funk/industrial section. I had no inherent interest in electronica/ funk/ industrial but it was the only section hidden behind a pillar which kept me out of sight from the staff's eyes and allowed me to harbour unmolested by pressure to actually buy anything. To be honest I didn't even know what

industrial music was. After a few wet Wednesdays I realised that Reckless was a cornucopia of musical cultures. There was always a weird or interesting track playing in the shop, something chosen by the tattooed, facially pierced, slightly surly-looking staff. Eventually I got talking to a few of them as I purchased early Portishead, late Van Morrison and the only Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins album I could find. They were passionate about music, all sorts of different music. I soon realised that one ought not to judge people by their look – you'd think as a fat turbaned Sikh boy from Glasgow that I might already know that. Thanks to them I discovered Scott Walker, Dizzee Rascal and Sufjan Stevens. (I even managed to get hold of a rare limited edition Deacon Blue album, which had a great live version of 'Dignity'.)

An emotional connection to a record shop is not a new phenomenon in my life. As a kid growing up in Bishopbriggs I remember my elder brother Raj venturing down to Bishopbriggs village to go to Tom Russell's record shop, a tiny wee place in a nondescript Eighties precinct. Tom (pictured) had a Rock Show on Radio Clyde and we listened religiously every week. Raj discovered that Tom had a record shop a mile from our house. It was unbelievable that someone on the radio, someone so otherworldly, could be so nearby. It was Raj's avowed intent that he talk to Tom, pass the time of day with him, talk about the superiority of Deep Purple Mark 2 and elicit Tom's opinion on the more bluesy direction that David Coverdale's Purple took after the departure of Ian Gillan. It took Raj three visits before he could pluck up the courage to strike up a conversation and when he did, the phone rang and Tom was distracted. Raj left, thwarted, but with a newly released copy of Gillan's Magic. In the months that followed, Raj would hang out in the shop, talk and chat and laugh and learn. I'm not sure if there was any link between Raj hanging out at Tom Russell's and his taste in music widening to the extent that me and my wee brother were made to listen to Hall and Oates.

I had a similar affinity with Fopp when I lived in Glasgow. I could spend an afternoon in there, swapping the hurly burly of Byres Road with the burly hurly of the narrow-aisled offerings of records and DVDs. Even now, when I return home, even if it's for a weekend, I look into Fopp and buy a cut-priced album or two. Independent record shops will always have a place in my heart.

So it is with great sadness that I tell you that my record shop Sister Ray has gone into liquidation and might not survive the non-music-loving hand of the administrator. Perhaps I can send the money men that Deacon Blue album. Maybe hearing 'Dignity' might change their minds.

Half-fat, full of nonsense

Overheard conversation

My friend: Granny, can I get you anything from the shops?

Granny: No.

My friend: Are you sure. Maybe some milk and bread?

Granny: Oh, yes. Good idea, pet. Some bread.

My friend: Brown or white?

Granny: White.

My friend: And milk?

Granny: Yes, pet.

My friend: What sort?

Granny: That green one...

My friend: Green one?

Granny: Aye pet, you know... semi-skilled...

Political face-off

I had a couple of friends round for dinner the other night. They were down frae the Borders. I filled the table with English pals and by coffee the chat came round to independence and the implications of Glasgow East. My pal said he was fine with an independent Scotland since if it occurred it would be the will of the people and a reflection of the Geneva Convention's right of self-determination. But his wife was agin it, in a big way. She was for the Union. She threatened to move to Carlisle. Why, I asked? Was her reason social, political or fiscal? She replied: "I don't like Alex Salmond's face." I had to confess, it was as valid a reason as any.

Welsh well-spoken, but we'll never be tongue-tied

I've spent most of the past week in Cardiff, working on the Eisteddfod coverage for the BBC. It's been a fascinating experience, and what has been strange for me is the fact that the Eisteddfod is almost entirely a Welsh language event. One in five of the Welsh are native speakers and the National Eisteddfod is a celebration of that linguistic culture. And it's language that is the single salient distinguishing feature between the Scots and the Welsh. Their language unifies the nation: it's more or less the same Welsh spoken from Barry to Bangor. We in Scotland have no similar unifying language. Scots is very different in different parts of the country. Gaelic is very much a Highland and Island language, albeit one that is creeping back into our cities. In contemporary Scotland there are as many Punjabi and Urdu speakers as Gaels, and soon there will be as many Polish speakers. The Welsh speak very eloquently about the importance of their language but I don't think that we as a nation have suffered too much from not having a truly native tongue. Perhaps it's because we are the unparalleled masters of English.