Lying in bed, I didn’t want to get up and face the news that the Conservatives had won a landslide.  I didn’t want to leave the house, or even go from room to room, with the heavy feeling of disappointment and, on top of that, the blocked feeling in my sinuses.  I didn’t want to be around housemates and friends who would all be likewise glum.  I could hear the steady fall of rain against my windows.

I woke up a bit.  Today was Thursday not Friday – the country hadn’t voted yet.

The rain was real, as was the feeling of a cold coming on, and the feeling of dread.  I dreamt I was door-knocking in the drizzle.  I dreamt I didn’t want to go door-knocking.  I dreamt I was calling the local campaign manager to say I was ill and so sorry I couldn’t make it.  Maybe I even dreamt that I didn’t vote, because the polling station was half a mile away in the rain, and my constituency is a safe Labour seat, so my vote isn’t needed, and the Tories are going to win anyway, so my vote doesn’t matter.

I did go door-knocking, and the sun was out.  My group (mostly university students, plus a few older folks) went round the suburb where I used to live with J.  Down one of the long streets, I saw more gardens with rose bushes than I’ve ever noticed in such a small area before.  One old, Irish gentleman with almost-blind eyes showed me the tiny picture of Mary hanging near his door, and crossed himself as he said he hoped we won.  To my surprise, I heard myself say “god bless” as well as goodbye, and by the look on his face he was surprised too, as he wished me the same in return.