Political writing is
not really what I wanted to do here (and who are we to judge?), but I remember
Cynthia.
Cynthia was someone I
used to know. A lady from Northern England. The world’s biggest fan of Agatha
Christie. She believed in ghosts. She had a doll house. She watched Coronation Street every night. She had a
collection of Bob Dylan’s greatest ‘hits’. She had three cats.
And she simply had to vote Tory, there was no getting
around it. In fact, I remember walking with her to the railway station in York
and asking her that very question: “Cynthia, are you going to vote for
Conservatives?”
And Cynthia, who had
seventeen copies of Murder On Orient
Express on her book shelves and who loved those cats as if they were her
children and who told me there was a ‘spectre’ living in my room, told me this:
“I would rather slit
my wrists than vote for Conservatives”.
In fact, she showed me
exactly how she would do it. So vivid I still shudder from the
memory.
However, something
tells me we won’t be seeing rivers of blood flowing into the Thames tomorrow. Which
is a sure sign of what Britain did yesterday. It fucked up.
