So, last night after a nice dinner and bath I wandered down to the Wine Alley Barn to cast my vote in the local elections. I had carefully chosen the candidate whom I was going to vote for, but when I arrived, they told me I could choose any three candidates from twelve.
It’s a bit like a Yankee Bet on the horses; two of them might be crap outsiders but you’ve got a chance that the third is a good ‘un. Or, like my horse racing bets: all three are losers.
The officials signing me off on the register sneered at my name, address, dressing gown and slippers and sent me to the voting cubicle where I quickly chose two more candidates from the list to make up my treble bet. The tension and secrecy was making me giggle – and I wasn’t the only one, several people were twitching in their cubicles.
Only when I got outside and examined the poster sized candidate list did I realise that due to the giggling, not having my glasses and the small print on the voting slip, I had managed to vote for the wrong people. Instead of 2 Green Party and 1 Labour I had managed one of each plus 1 Conservative. None of them being my original choice.
Robin Hood forced Oliver Cromwell to sign the Magna Charta and Emily St Pancras threw herself under a jockey so that I could get the vote, and now I’ve gone and wasted three of them.
Thank God it doesn’t make any difference.
