Making my mark

That's it. I've done it.

I am surprised how emotional I am when it comes to voting. The private walk to the polling station, a few moments to think through what I really want and the responsibility of marking an X on the ballot paper.

I remember turning 18 and being so delighted that just a couple of months later there were European elections and I could vote! The privilege! The honour! I've never been quite so excited about the European elections before or since.

This time I had to queue! I guess that the school run is bound to be the busiest time when the polling station is in a classroom. My most recent voting experience was for a local council election and involved walking to a portakabin on a scrap of land that previously I didn't know existed. Last general election we were living in Zambia. Whilst I could have gone through the procedure to get a postal / overseas vote I didn't. It was a lot of fuss and a very early deadline and I could only vote in the last constituency I was registered at, which I didn't really care about at all. 

But, for me, the real frisson of excitement comes with actually entering the polling station and holding the stubby pencil attached to a piece of old string, and making a cross on the paper. I am actually able to make a statement of my beliefs, with no coercion (if you excuse the media and politicking of the last four weeks) and no risk of retribution. No-one need ever know how I voted and nobody can tell me I was wrong. It is my democratic right.

It is a great privilege.

So, thank you Ms Pankhurst et al for fighting for this freedom of mine. And thank you, UK, for your democracy, despite its flaws. I enjoy voting, every time, even if my choice doesn't get in. Thank you.

(And no, I wasn't quite dressed like that!)


Picture taken from iTelegraph (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1542248/Suffragettes-were-like-al-Qaeda.html): all copyright remains with them.

If the vote went only by displayed signs...

Last weekend I went across the Pennines to visit my father in York.

The M62 isn't known for its suburban outlook, but there was a fair amount of driving through countryside at my father's end, and through built-up areas at our (Manchester) end. Partly to amuse the children, the journey became a game of 'spot the election campaign notice.'

Large orange diamonds are hard to miss. And it seems that farmers have the space to erect large Blue posters all along their hedgerows, nailed to every tree (surely that isn't good for them?) But no-one - I repeat, no-one - was displaying a Red sign.

Is this a reflection of the likely voting outcome? Based on our survey, the Conservatives would have about 590 seats in parliament, the Lib Dems about 60, and Labour would be signing on the dole. None of the swingometers and polls seem to mirror our observations!

Whilst the family prepared dinner, I nipped across town to visit my grandmother. She wasn't having a good day, which made it almost impossible to have a conversation. She knew that she knew me, but struggled to understand anything I said, wasn't really clear that I have a husband and children, and started wondering why my mother hadn't been to visit her. "Oh, I suspect she's busy," Gran said. My mother, her daughter, has been dead over twenty years now: a very difficult situation to explain. (I didn't: I just let it pass).

I enjoyed my journey through York. The evening sun cast a beautiful light on the old Roman walls, and the grassy banks were covered with bright yellow daffodils, heads held proud. It is a sight that never fails to delight me.


Returning to Dad's I was delighted to declare that I had - at last - seen a Red poster.

"Really?" my husband asked.

"Yes! In fact, lots of them! They were nearly covering a large window."

"Crikey! Where?"

"The headquarters of York Labour Party," I said gleefully.