It's the warmest day of the year thus far, so I dress for summer in my sandals and political shirt .
My political shirt was given me by Judy. It features the faces of Bush, Rumsfeld and Cheyney and the bold motto: Asses of Evil
The polling station is set up in the Methodist Sunday School. There are two tellers on the door. One is a smiley bearded Pakistani and the other is a resident at the home for elderly male misfits on Honeywell Lane. I imagine the Beardy guy is Labour. Is the misfit a Tory, then? Perhaps he is. The Home for elederly male misfits has a flagpole from which they fly the cross of St George and other such rags (including sometimes the flag of the State of California (?!)) even when there's no World Cup looming.
The Labour candiate, Asaf Ali, is sitting in the Sunday School . On the sofa, next to him, is a very old white guy. Is this Mr Wright, the independent?
Mr Wright hasn't put out any literature so I don't know what he's idependently standing for. If I knew I might vote for him on the principle that all the major parties are rubbish.
My Asses of Evil shirt amuses the girls who tick my name off the register and hand me my voting paper. Asaf Ali turns to the very old white guy and asks "Why isn't your face on that?"
I retire to the booth and scan the paper. The British National Party are fielding a record number of candidates this year, but they're not fielding one in Alexandra Ward. hooray!
I vote...no it's a secret, I'm not telling, but it isn't for Tony Blair and it isn't for the Tories (I had a chip inserted in my brain when I was 15 which prevents me from ever voting Tory.)
There's a policeman sitting across the room from Asaf Ali and the very old white guy. He's there to make sure neither of them cheats.
Last time we held local elections in Blair's Britain there was massive fraud.
I've performed my democratic duty. When I turn back onto Belgrave Rd (at 11 o'clock on a bright summer's morning) the nice new lamps are lit.