So yesterday was another polling day. I thought I’d done my voting last May. I’ve since seriously regretted my decision, although I’m painfully aware that the possible alternatives were equally unacceptable. It was a case of “the best of a bad job” at the time; it still is. And I’m all geared up to make my mark in the appropriate box in June for the upcoming European Referendum. That’s a VIP “X” marks the spot for me. Somehow though yesterday’s mini poll did not flag up on my political radar.
On our way to a Thursday curry night, we saw “Polling Station” signs in most of the villages we travelled through. “How come we’ve not had voting cards?” asks Mr B. “Is our area not voting this time?”
“Obviously not,” says I, in charge of the wheel.
And then I cast my mind back, whilst nonchalantly cruising up hill and down dale with the warm spring breeze wafting in through the half open window, and Mr B whistling along to the radio. I have a vague recollection of two cards appearing in our post box several weeks ago that may have been to do with voting. I make a mental note to check when we get home, knowing full well that polling stations stay open till 10 pm and we can still put our vote in if need be.
Later, I take Mr B a coffee out to the workshop, where he’s twiddling with a machine.
“We do have voting slips for today,” I say, holding out the cards. “It’s to vote for the local Police Commissioner.”
“Do we know who the candidates are?” he asks.
“No idea!” I reply. And I realise right then that we’re not going to vote today.
“Where were the cards?”
“In the bread bin.”
The bread bin houses all domestic paperwork to be dealt with; it has never held bread.
Does anyone else have a bread bin for a filing system I wonder?