A Pencil Sketch

 

Poor old Jane Austen was accused of never including details of momentous events in her writing: of leaving out any references to wars and turmoil that formed the distant backdrop to her world as she sat scribbling at her desk.

She should have done, it was argued, by my lecturer. And gullible and naïve, I thought so too. “Yes, she should have said something,” I believed back then, “just to set the scene. She should have thrown in a reference to Napoleon perhaps here and there. It would have firmed up the context.”

Now I realise that if she had have done then something else would perhaps have been lost. Some little detail. A pencil sketch of everyday life that would have been lost forever had she too listened to the voices of such critics.

Those that wrote of Napoleon’s campaigns were never accused of not giving any attention to the minutia of everyday life of those he warred against, not realising how much they lost by not doing so. For they lost the details of foreground: the details of the lives of those who made the buttons for such shiny battle coats.

Jane Austen realised this no doubt, that others would write well of wars and battles, and that it was far better if someone did in fact write about the minutiae of life instead: the little things. The little things that add up like pennies to form the banks upon which we found our existence… like for example a local election.

Jane Austen, of course, would have not been allowed to vote had there been such election in her time. Writing this fills me with such sadness and pain. For perhaps history could have been transformed for the better if women had always held that right.

I have always voted.

I vote because it is my way of saying thank you to those that fought so hard for my vote.

I never miss a chance to vote.

Interestingly, in all these years of my voting not one person I have ever voted for has ever been victorious in any election.

My cast vote, my X against a name, means that so-and-so will have absolutely no chance of winning.

I have changed my voting colours I have voted over the years for yellows, reds and greens (though never the blues) and not once has anybody I’ve ever voted for been elected.

I live, I am reliably told, in an indicator town. A place that unfailingly always returns the winning political party every year to Westminster. When our town votes are counted that is it. The election is effectively over and the government a foregone conclusion.

It seems the voters in my town, with the notable exception of me, are in tune with the political mood of the country and all, with the exception of me, are psychically aware of what the future holds.

When you think about it, the country could save itself an awful lot of money by just allowing this one town to vote. 

And then also any individual candidates on this voting list could save themselves hours of wasted time, effort and expense by simply knocking on my door and asking me which way I intended to vote.

Imagine the relieved smiles of candidates leaving my threshold after being told I was not voting for them.

And the happy smile of the one assured of my vote who would then be able to call a quick halt to the expensive leafleteers and pop off for a holiday in the sun instead of pointlessly trudging the streets.

It could save an awful lot of time.

The rooms where I vote are at the back of the Methodist church. They seem to become sepia as soon as I enter. It’s a dusty place. An empty crowded place. It’s full of ghosts. There are soldiers and curled-haired women in tight skirts dancing to music that only they can hear. There is a warm hush in this place. The people behind the desk are delighted to see at last a voter, someone with whom they can interact  and prepare papers for.

They’d changed the layout a little. I walk into the open booths set further back, dodging the ethereal dancers whose thoughts are on the war, and then I look down at the names on the voting list with sadness knowing that my cross will mean that some poor unfortunate’s hopes will be instantly dashed.

I hesitate, and then make the two quick slashed lines. It is as if I’ve wielded a sword and not a stubby thick pencil tied to a string.

 

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