AN OLD black dog cocks its leg up against the tulips next to the village pump. A woodpecker drills into a tree trunk down on the common. The dandelions stay firmly closed in the cold morning air.
Grey skies and drizzle in Lush Places. A perfect day for an election.
At the Grigg hovel today, the two party political signs in the window look quite attractive against the purple door. The orange of Sue Farrant, the blue of Oliver Letwin. But close inspection reveals the windows could do with a new coat of paint. And, bizarrely, attempts have been made to alter the names to read Sue Farright and Oliver Leftwing.
A few folks make their way up to the polling station, but things are pretty quiet. You could hear a hat-pin drop.
A quiet start to election day in Lush Places
Outside the door, a teller with a blue rosette chomps on an apple and asks for my number. She smiles a thank you and reveals a ghastly, gaping tunnel of masticated apple, edged with violent mauve lipstick seemingly applied by Bette Davies in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane.
There is a sign pointing the way in to the polling station but nothing to show you the way out. You can check in any time you like, but you can never leave.
No way out?
Like something from A Sound of Thunder, a famous short story by Ray Bradbury, the scenery tomorrow could look very different, depending on what you do today. It’s in your hands.
