 Open the doors, Fosglaf Nadorson. Open the doors, light of the day, shine in, light of the mind, shine out. We have a building which is more than a building. There is a commerce between inner and outer, between brightness and shadow, between the world and those who think about the world. Is it not a mystery? The parts cohere, they come together like petals of a flower, yet they also send their tongues outwards to feel and taste the teeming earth. Did you want classic columns and predictable pediments, a growl of old Gothic grandeur, a blissfully boring box? Not here, no thanks, no icon, no Ikea, no iceberg, but curves and caverns, nooks and niches, huddles and heaven's syncopations and surprises. Leave symmetry to the symmetry. But bring together slate and stainless steel, black granite and grey granite, seasoned oak and sycamore, concrete blonde and smooth as silk, the mix is almost alive, it breathes and beckons, imperial marble it is not. Come down the mile into the heart of the city, past the Kirk of St Giles, and the closies and wines of the noted ghost of history, who drank their claret and fell down the steep tenement stairs into the arms of link boys, but who wrote and talked the starry enlightenment of their days. And before them, the old mackers who tickled a Scottish king's ear with melody, ribaldry and frank advice. And when you were there, down there in the midst of things, not set upon an hill with your nose in the air, this is where you know your parliament should be, and this is where it is, just here. What do the people want of the place? They want it to be filled with thinking persons as open and adventurous as its architecture. A nest of theories is what they do not want. A symposium of procrastinators is what they do not want. A phalanx of four loctuggers is what they do not want. And perhaps above all, the droopy mantra of it whizny me is what they do not want. Dear friends, dear lawgithers, dear parliamentarians, you are picking up a thread of pride and self-esteem that has been almost but not quite, oh no not quite, not ever broken or forgotten. When you convene, you will be reconvening, with a sense of not wholly the power, not yet wholly the power, but a good sense of what was once in the honour of your grasp. All right, forget or don't forget the past. Trumpets and robes are fine, but in the present and the future you will need something more. What is it? We, the people, cannot tell you yet, but you will know about it when we do tell you. We give you our consent to govern. Don't pock it and ride away. We give you our deepest, dearest wish to govern well. Don't say we have no mandate to be so bold. We give you this great building. Don't let your work and hope be other than great when you enter and begin. So now begin. Falls Galamna Dorson. Open the doors and begin.