After four miles or so I reach the roundabout. It’s about 8.30, and getting dark. I stick my thumb out, and a Land Rover stops. Bloke in his thirties, with a beard.
“Where are you going?”
I tell him. He’s Labour. He goes out of his way to drop me at the polling station. He drives fast, too. I get there at about one minute to nine. They’re turning the lights off. I beg. I tell them of my journey. They let me vote, and close up.
At midnight I’m in the local pub, where there’s a lock-in. There’s a hubbub, and a bunch of guys walk in, among them the Labour candidate. The outcome of the vote seems clear from the look on his face.
“You won!” I say to him.
“Actually no, we drew.”
There have been amazing scenes in the Town Hall, it seems. They’ve counted the voting cards three times, and each time it’s been too close to call. The last two counts have revealed a dead heat. In these circumstances they draw lots to see who’s won. They put two voting cards in a cardboard box - one pro Labour and one pro Tory in this case - and draw one out.
They’ve picked out the Labour guy. My guy. The guy I’ve travelled across the country to vote for. He buys me a drink. “I told you it was important to vote,” he says. AL