“This street? I’d rather not. Please.”
“It’s your area, make it count.” My agent held my look.
“Look, if it’s all the same to you.”
“It isn’t. Get on with it. What’s the problem, what’s the issue?”
“If it’s all the same . . . ”
“Don’t repeat yourself. I told you that before. Get on with it.”
“I’ll do another area.”
“We’ve done every other area, street, house. Is there something you want to tell me? Now.”
“I told you everything at pre-selection.”
“Glad to hear it. Sometimes you leave things a bit late. I’m not meaning this as a virtue. We need every vote. You know that. What is your strategy, go back to the last street and ask them to vote twice in place of this one?”
I wasn’t sure which had transformed most—the street, the party, me. Thirty years is a long time in politics. I’d changed most things over time—CND, Beatnik, Mod, New Romantic, New Labour.
The Dormobiles replaced by 4x4s, the steel bins the bin men used to turn upside down to empty scrapped by recycling boxes.
It seemed ironic my slogan was “Be the Change”. I had no choice but to go on, down the last street, the last house.
I saw my hand rise to knock but it hit air, the door already opening. The perfume hit me first.
I’ve never voted for anything, anyone else.
“You’ve changed,” she said.