Thursday 8th June 2017

Election Day (UK)

Didn't we do this two years ago? Yes we did, but for reasons I might have already covered in one of my dreadful Brexit blogs, she called one anyway even with the fixed term parliament act still in force. Anyway, the result I will go over in another post, but for the time being, the best we can say about Thursday is that the hustings were closed, and all the guff had been spent, now we all hold our breath until after then in the evening when the ballots close and the exit poll results would be announced.

Thursday is meeting day. Oh sorry, every day is meeting day. And I am stuck in front of the computer for all morning.

Meeting after meeting after meeting. And then me arranging meetings for tomorrow whilst still in today's meetings. If anything, tomorrow looks even worse. I try to avoid the news all day, and when listening to music on the i player, avoid music from previous days too. Last minute polls indicate that the result might be closer than previously thought, I find that hard to believe, but you never know I suppose.

Once meetings had finished, I had eaten lunch, written mails, arranged more mails, and at about two, I was free to go to vote. I could have gone in the evening, but with the sun shining, and the breeze blowing, it should be a pleasant day for it. And anyway, apart from participating in the democratic process, we were out of milk, so I put on me walking shoes and go out, walking down Station Road and up the other side into the village through the churchyard and to the village hall where the polling station was.

I show my card, am given a voting slip, go to the wooden screen, pick up a pencil and look at who to choose from. Or in the case of the 2017 General Election, who was least worse. It was a tough choice, but I put a cross beside a name, and go to put my vote into the box.

Jaws 19 says the returning officer. To me.

Indeed, I am wearing a Last Exit t shirt bearing a mock ad for a mock film featured in the middle film of a trilogy made at the end of the 1980s It does bear the legend "Jaws 19; directed by Max Spielberg. This time it's really, really personal." It is a homage to the scene in Back to the Future 2, so I have to explain that, no, there have not been 19 Jaws films, but explain about the ad in BTTF", and the holo ad which Marty thinks is attacking him.

The returning officer doesn't seem to believe me, but then go o to explain that the shirt was released to mark the real date when the film says Jaws 19 would be released. I then fried his brain by saying Roy Batty's inception date was 18 months ago and shirts were made for that too. Are you a film buff he asked. Not any more I said, I just though me and all my friends knew this shit. I think he wanted to talk to me some more, as he followed me across the hall as I tried to leave. Not that he had anything else important to do is there?

I call in at the village sop for supplies: milk, crisps and a Magnum. All are essential. I eat the Magnum as I walk down to where the Red Lion stands on the corner, then turn down Kingsdown Road. Ice cream is good, and I look like what I am, a fat bloke eating an ice cream as I saunter down the street towards the open countryside. Ice cream gone, I am passed by a couple who live down the street from us. He is a former teacher, who former neighbours tell us likes to do the gardening in the nude, and last year managed to piss of the builders we use by changing his mind on work they were doing from us. We hardly ever speak, except for the four week period when he would come round several times a week asking if we thought the boys were any good. One of them walked off the job, lest he punch Malcolm's face in after another change in plan. Anyway, I stop to let them pass, and they can barely speak; situation normal.

Along the lane, passed by a car of one of the owners of the houses nesting in folds of the down, stopping to snap some wild flowers, and generally dawdle some more until I come to the top of the Dip.

Down I go, slipping and sliding in my loosely tied trainers. I will never learn, apparently. Halfway down there is a butterfly basking, so I use the compact to snap it, and it comes out OK, just not macro OK really, but good enough. At the bottom, there is mud and standing water, thanks in main to the storm we had a few days ago. I thrash my way on the path around the mud, it is overgorwn and has not been used for weeks, but like Stanley searching for Livingstone, I will not give up.

I arrive back home, aching in back, but that's nothing a cuppa won't fix. That and a sit on the sofa with cuppa, Molly and watching Time Team. As usual.

And dinner is easy peasy lemon squeezy as its leftover pasta salad and aubergines. And beer. Sweet beer.

through the evening the realisation that tomorrow will bring the Tories back in with a greatly increased majority, harder Brexit and a ruined economy bringing reduced horizons for future generations of young Britons. Only Spring Watch and Pine Martin kits can soothe the pain.