Front line fables

It’s April, the cruellest month according to the poet, and so it must be time to don my walking boots and range widely across South Suffolk with my little basket containing leaflets and envelopes, clip boards and the like.  The aim of course is to find someone, anyone, at home; then to try to engage them in conversation, or, at least, to thrust material into their hands in the hope that they might actually read some of it before it heads for the recycling bin.

 It is no accident that electioneering is called a ‘campaign’, and the usual pitfalls and perils of the process soon begin to reveal themselves.

The struggle with letter boxes, for example, becomes no easier as the years pass. This year I already have two grazed fingers where metal plates have sprung back savagely, catching my retreating hand.  I have also developed a nice case of ‘knockers knuckle’, the result of the upper rim of the letter box catching the top of my hand as I repeatedly try to force flimsy paperwork between the impenetrable brushes of the modern ‘draught proof’ state of the art receptacle.

Dogs and other creatures continue to perplex.   Is that wagging tail a sign of welcome or aggression?  What is that white shape lurking just the other side of the door? Is it a Staffie with sharp teeth waiting for unwary fingers to poke through?  Geese have cackled enthusiastically at several farms, but none so far has proved dangerous. The worst injury that I have sustained so far this year is a thump on the leg from a protective bantam cockerel that crept up behind me in Preston St Mary.

People on the doorstep remain astonishingly tolerant on the whole, and I was made particularly welcome in some homes during the recent sub-zero temperatures.  Too many cups of coffee slow you down however, and three doorsteps a morning are simply not enough!

One thing that I have observed is a marked increase in marital disharmony in the political opinion department.    ‘I can’t speak for him’ or ‘her’ is a much repeated mantra this time around.  At one house in Hitcham I was told by one spouse who opened the door that no one in the household voted, only to be waylaid by the other, round the back of the garage, desperate to join in clandestine political debate.

All in all going '  out on the stump’ remains a uniquely interesting experience, as full of moments of joy as of despair. I am quite happy however that it only comes around every couple of years!

This is the 800th post since my blog started in February 2007.