Low life | 30 June 2016

On referendum day, my mother leaned on my arm for support and we walked slowly and carefully up the steps of the village hall, wondering if this was to be the last time either or both of us would be voting in a national plebiscite. Here again was the paper ‘Polling Station’ poster pinned to a five-bar gate. Here again were the weeds flourishing between the paving slabs in the forecourt, and the plaque on the wall commemorating the opening of the village hall by some local mauve-faced grandee in 1952. Here again were the handrails showing signs of rust and the two sets of institutional double doors reminding me of school. And here again was the village hall cleared of furniture save the desk at which the two cheerful volunteers, marooned like castaways on a vast expanse of cement floor, were taking names and issuing voting papers.

And over there, representing our most cherished political ideal, fought for most notably by the Chartists and the suffragettes, and placed at a respectful distance, were the village’s two wobbly, home-made, deal and hardboard polling booths.

You had to laugh, and we did. So did the volunteers, neither of whom we had encountered before. Yet I’m not sure exactly why we all laughed. Whether it was the painful consciousness at how old and decrepit we all are in this village, creeping in one by one like walking wounded. Or whether it was recognition that it is only on voting days and royal jubilees that a significant proportion of the villagers come out of the woodwork. Perhaps our frivolity matched the Prime Minister’s surprising insouciance in allowing us to decide whether to continue with our membership of the EU, or not, in the first place.