In Gordon Burn's novel Born Yesterday there is a sentence which I have taken with me to my meeting with Alex Salmond: “The cruelty of politics is its attraction.”

The First Minister is no stranger to the cruelty of politics and has usually been keen to land the first blow, but the man sitting opposite me in the drawing room at Bute House has changed during the past year. In opposition, you are allowed to be a bare-knuckle fighter, but once in power a certain decorum is required. This was evident from the outset when, last May, a newly crowned Salmond landed by helicopter on a hotel lawn to give a press conference. It was more West Wing than West Wemyss. The weeks that followed mixed statesmanship with brinkmanship, as the First Minister proved a deft leader of his minority administration.

It is a year since we met for breakfast at a café in Stirling. At that time, Mr Salmond was still on the campaign trail, seemingly confident of his destiny (but then aren't all politicians?). He was proved right, however, and is now installed in an Edinburgh town house with a view over Charlotte Square. The recent diet has not been a complete success, and he tucks into the shortbread that accompanies his coffee. It is, he tells me, by Dean's of Huntly, and is a constituency success story. Good news, I agree, at a time when a Japanese whisky has been judged the best in the world, but Mr Salmond wants to talk about fishing.

One of the first things he did as First Minister was “go to Brussels and have a shouting match” about quotas. But since then he has been at pains to soften his style. “You can't go around being angry with people if you want to get things done,” he says. “I try to differentiate between the hurly-burly of politics and people who've got decent arguments to put forward.”

This is one reason, perhaps, why he sees the National Conversation as one of his achievements. It has, he tells me, “had a dramatic effect on the other parties”. In similar vein, the Broadcasting Commission is “concentrating minds wonderfully at the BBC”. In both cases it appears that success is measured in large part by how far the project's existence serves to shake up the status quo, rather than by providing any new ideas of its own.

On the other hand, in a country the size of Scotland it is certainly possible, as Mr Salmond says, to gather together the main players in any sector and explain your plan of action to them, hoping for some co-operation. “Even if they don't like the plan, they like to know that there is a plan.”

The First Minister sees his first year in office as a process of “bedding in”. That only five Bills are on the table at Holyrood is by design. Bills, he feels, are too often associated with the “virility” of the party in power. People would by and large prefer that politicians “just get on with it”. But he quickly adds a caveat: “We are also a minority government, and need to be careful what fights we pick.”

He also feels that people do not yet fully understand what independence would mean for them. His first year has been aimed at demonstrating competence, to “persuade people over a period of time that you know what you're doing”. He knows, too, that he has to “relate the concept [of independence] to the issues which concern people”, such as Iraq or the siting of nuclear weapons on Scottish soil.

As we sip our drinks and nibble on the award-winning shortbread, I find myself comparing the man in front of me with the gossipy, slippery politician from a year ago. That version of Alex Salmond seems to have been replaced by a more thoughtful upgrade —Version 2.0 perhaps — who wants to talk policy and ideas.

He doesn't discuss Wendy Alexander's travails, and mentions Gordon Brown only in connection with the recent cross-border co-operation during the Grangemouth strike. I ask him if he understands the mindset of Unionism. He thinks he does, but is quick to state that the “pillars” holding it up have largely gone, “though that's not to say that Unionism goes with them”.

He mentions an aunt who was a Unionist, her argument against independence consisting of the phrase “We're no' ready yet”. She was part of a generation that saw security in the Union (and stability, too, she might have added). And yet, as Mr Salmond is quick to point out: “The roof didn't fall in when the SNP came to power.”

Maybe not, but Jim Mather, the Enterprise Minister, who is a big hit with business leaders, seldom includes the word “independence” in meetings. Moreover, I probably couldn't point him out in a police line-up — there are highly capable people behind the First Minister, but that's where they tend to stay. There's only enough limelight for one man. At the press conference to announce the Broadcasting Commission, Linda Fabiani, the Culture Minister, was notable by her absence. In her place stood the actress Elaine C. Smith and a certain Alex Salmond. Is he maybe trying too hard?

The only time he really looks aggrieved is when I say that voters seem, in the main, to approve of the SNP's brand of “Government Lite” but might require a few big ideas really to energise them. I flag up education and renewables and the First Minister replies, with just a hint of harrumph, that he'll need to do better in getting his message across.

“The big idea this year has been trying to engage government with society and to stop the war between national and local government.” He goes on to talk about “efficiency savings”, before having a dig at the Treasury — none of which is going to galvanise the punter in West Wemyss. Still, Mr Salmond seems genuinely excited about the Saltire Prize for Marine Renewables, which comes with the imprimatur of National Geographic - and not even President Bartlet managed that.

As the interview draws to a close, I quote a line from Holyrood magazine: “If Alex Salmond wants independence . . . it's more important for him to annoy England than woo Scotland.” He shakes his head. “I'm not concerned with annoying Westminster, though I certainly want the ability to make them ‘dance to a Scottish jig'.”

He seems to relish the phrase, while ignoring its confrontational aspect. But then he's in a win-win position. If Westminster approved every SNP proposal, it would be a vote-winner for the party, whereas if Westminster says no, this plays badly north of the Border — again to the SNP's benefit.

As we close the interview, I comment that he's had a good year, albeit aided by an ineffectual opposition that seems to specialise in shooting itself in the foot. “Or in the head,” he jokes, seeming at long last like the “Eck” of old: that understandable glee at the everyday cruelty of politics. But he recovers well, and says he hopes that Labour will raise its game: “You play better against a good football team.”

By now he is showing me around Bute House. In truth it's a desultory building, its style impersonal, stuck in limbo between private home and public office. But I can tell that Alex Salmond, pugilist-turned-statesman, is as pleased as Punch to be there.

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