Scottish history turned a corner on Saturday 11th December 2010, and Scotland was a better, healthier place at the end of that day than it had been at its start.
The resignation of Stewart Stevenson from the soi-disant, ersatz 'Scottish Government' could just be Scottish civic nationalism's 'Berlin Wall' moment, the point every ideology reaches when it is confronted by events for which it has no solution, and by which it is therefore overcome.
Perhaps state papers of the future will tell us whether or not The Tartanissimo decided that Stevenson should resign; after all, he might just be making every decision at the national level in Scottish public administration at the moment. As a hypothetical, when you're a personality cult that's behind in the polls and feeling the need to maintain the paramount illusion of The Leader's hypercompetence, it would be better to resign rather force The Leader to sack you. A sacking would call The Leader's judgment into question for having appointed you, and would also give cause for concern about their ability to impose their will on the party, and we couldn't be having that. After all, the dark side of having your own personality cult is that you condemn yourself to suffer the gnawing fear of palace coups.
But Stevenson is gone, The Tartanissimo's fat carcass remains ensconced in Bute House - for a while, anyway - and the Scottish political and media village can still keep peddling the myth of 'The Scottish Government' with those well-paid smirks on their faces, while those of us not part of that village can rot in the leper colonies around its edges.
For the moment.