Back in 5B passing rude notes

WELL, that’s over then. And a good job, too.

Forgive me if I can’t be excited about performing my civic duty.

It’s not as if the major political parties are coming to me for advice or the wisdom of my advanced years. All they want from me as my contribution to the weighty and sombre matters of state is a number written on a piece of paper.

It’s good to know I’m in control of my own destiny. It’s even better to know that with any luck I won’t have to do it again for another few years.

There must be ways we can make voting a more palatable experience.

Churches had to do it. When the audience tired of the church environment they made it compulsory for vicars to carry guitars and grow long hair (those who still could) and say things like ‘groovy’.

The Electoral Commission could learn from this. They could divide polling booths into age ranges and introduce appropriate music. Give free tea, Coke or beer, and mystery prizes… “Congratulations! You’re the one thousandth customer this morning. Here’s your free pencil…”

Mostly though, they could simplify the system. This time I was given a green form and a white one. The green one was easy enough, but I thought the white one was a shopping list. Did you see how many names were on that thing!

And why do they place polling stations in schools? They make me nervous. I’m afraid to talk to my wife in case someone tells me to put my hands on my head and stand in line. I might end up as pencil monitor.

And on the way out a voice will yell: “Pearce!” with the sadistic joy of someone who is going to make me write “I must not bite the end of the voting pencil because other people have to use it, too,” 50 times on the blackboard.

School was not a happy experience for me. They are not places where people feel in charge of their own destiny. They are places where you glance furtively around for help because you know that if you don’t know the right answer your life’s going to be hell. Maybe that’s exactly why we hold our elections in them.

Dropping that folded slip (or in the case of the white one – forcing that thick wad) through the slot in the ballot box makes me sweat in the same way exams used to when the final bell went and you suddenly remembered, on your way out of the room, that election was spelled with only one L, and there wasn’t a damned thing you could do about it.

In my case though, it didn’t matter. My vote was a complete waste of time. I did everything with dutiful and painstaking care, dropped the completed slips into the slot and breathed a sigh of relief. I expected a gold star or at least a smiley sticker.

A voice said: “What do you think you’re doing?”

My knees buckled.

“Er, nothing, sir.”

He looked puzzled. I don’t think he was used to people calling him sir.

“Nothing?”

The polling booths melted away. I was back in 5B, sprung for passing a rude note to Brian Gomersaul.

“Er, no sir. Yes, sir?”

“Then why have you posted your voting slip in the children’s Christmas letterbox?”