I’ve been leafletting since 8am. It is polling day, so that was a really light escape. That was the earliest I could get here by public transport, and not bad since I didn’t leave here til long gone 9 last night. Everything takes longer by bus — but it gives me a cracking excuse for not turning up at 5am. Sorry, but first bus ain’t til 0705.
My feet are killing me, I’ve nearly walked through the soles of my trainers, my legs ache and my arms are dropping off because not only have I been shoving leaflets through doors, for most of the morning I’ve been carrying a ton of leaflets around so I don’t keep having to walk back to base.
My hands and arms are covered in minor abrasions from bag handles and the sharper letterboxes. Worst of all, I’ve been mauled by a sodding cat! You learn to expect the dogs – the straightforward ones that bark when you open the gate, the ones that wait to bark until you’re a bit closer and make you jump out of your skin, and the sneaky ones that lie silently in wait on the doormat and then have your finger off without warning. But a cat? This one was sitting quietly under the letterbox and the first I knew was when it launched itself claws first at the sill and drew blood from my finger.
Remind me – why do I do this?
Anyway, I’m sitting in a pub to take the weight off and use the facilities. I’m allowed – I had a letter for the landlord. Would have been rude not to have a quick drink. So I’m sitting here moblogging to avoid eyeballing a resident I just had a run-in with.
“That Deidre [candidate] must have a bob or two. I’ve had 6 leaflets!”
Six, eh? Is that all?