Elections past
There are pictures of me, just after my second birthday, sitting on the grass with my Dad, before his hair turned white and the beer took quite such a toll on his waist, and my Mum, when she still had long, flowing, brown hair down to her waist. I was all small and cute, with masses of curly hair and a big smile, happy to play with my Mum�s hair, or my Dad�s glasses (which he removed for the photograph) but mostly just wanting to chase the ducks that kept trying to invade the picture. It was the early 1980s and my Dad was running for Parliament, and as part of his election leaflet, explaining to the voters why they should elect him as their representative to the House of Commons, was a picture of him and his new family.
In 1987 Dad�s election agent had two daughters the same age as my brother and I. The two Mothers used to take turns looking after all four children, while the Dads went out electioneering. Not wanting to miss out, on some Saturday�s B and I, as the oldest children and much to our younger siblings chagrin, were allowed to go out and help with the leafleting; two six year olds holding their Daddys� hands as they ever so carefully folded leaflets, to push through letter boxes, without getting their fingers caught. One night, after a hard day�s campaigning, Dad returned home with a large bandage on his hand, while fighting the good fight, he had been bitten by dog and had had to take the afternoon off the campaign trail to sit in Casualty, from then on, we were not allowed to leaflet any houses with �Beware of the Dog signs�.
Come 1992, the seat my Dad was fighting was further away. He would stay down there for much of the week and much of the weekend. My brother and I, left in our Mum�s care, hardly saw him for weeks on end, occasionally we were allowed to join him on the election trail, sometimes taken around as little assistants as he knocked on doors, asking for votes. We were given the day after polling off school and went down with Mum to the constituency on election night, still young and uninformed enough to believe that he might win. The day after the election, Dad took us to the park, away from the rest of the campaign team and pushed us on the swings.
By 1997 things had changed. My parents had divorced, my brother had grown old enough to exercise his right not to be interested in politics and I was in the middle of revising for my GCSEs. For the duration of the election campaign, my brother and I stayed with our Mum. Dad was fighting our home town and once a week my best friend and I would drop in on he campaign headquarters and go on a lunch time ice cream run for the campaign team. The April days in the lead up to May 1st were gorgeous and spring filled, hope was in the air. It was the last time my Dad would run for Parliament.
The 2001 election passed everyone by. I was ensconced in my 1st year at University and had decided to find out what it was like to not be in an election campaign. This didn�t stop me arguing about politics with my corridor mates, or being terribly excited when Alistair Campbell waved at me and Red Headed H as we gate-crashed Blair�s visit to campus: political groupies? Oh yes.
Now I have conversations with my Dad and my step Mum about whether or not they can actually bring themselves to vote Labour and if they can�t whether or not they are going to vote at all. And so I find that my greatest involvement in the election campaign is to blog about it, well the more amusing aspects of it anyway
As I sit back, consuming as much information about the campaign as I can, I find that to some extent, I do miss the campaign trail, but what I miss is fighting for something and someone that I believe in. So next weekend I�ll be going home, to once again fold leaflets, and knock on doors for my Dad. Although this time he isn�t fighting for Westminster but for the County Council, and he isn�t fighting for a seat but defending one, and where he has achieved so much more at a local level than he would have ever done elsewhere.