A woman of principle? Not me
How far would you go to help out your boss? Do you begrudge even making them a cup of tea? Or would you sacrifice your principles to give them a hand?
Unfortunately, in my case, I’ve discovered it’s the latter. When my boss let slip he was standing for Kent County Council, I found myself offering to help with his campaign, even though he was standing for a party I’d sworn never to vote for at county level.
And congratulations to him – he won by a landslide, and is now one of two councillors proudly representing Swale Central at County Hall.
He was surprised at my offer, to say the least. “Most people hate their boss,” he pointed out drily. “They don’t want to give up their Saturday morning to help them deliver leaflets. Are you sure you don’t mind?” But I knew it would be fun as well as worthwhile … and that fresh air was bound to be preferable to Saturday morning TV.
“Just one piece of advice,” he warned me. “If you wear rings, take them off. I’ve known people who’ve got their rings caught in letterboxes and the next thing they know there’s a dog nibbling their fingers on the other side.”
I gulped. I’m terrified of dogs and practically go into meltdown if one comes within ten feet of me. The idea of one nibbling my fingers made me feel faint. So as I trundled over to Sittingbourne the following Saturday, carrying a box of leaflets that weighed almost as much as I did, I was decidedly jewellery-free.
Now I learned a few things about leaflet-dropping that morning. The first is that it’s hard work. What looks like a few little cul-de-sacs on the map turns out to be a sprawling estate, and opening gates, walking up and down drives and fighting with letterboxes makes the whole process slower than you expect. When two of us had only done half of one street after an hour, I began to panic. Basic maths told me that if we continued at this rate and didn’t stop to eat or sleep, we’d be finished by approximately 8pm the following Tuesday.
The second is that 99.9 per cent of households in Sittingbourne own at least one Staffordshire bull terrier. Or at least it felt that way. I’ve always known that as a non-dog-lover I’m in a minority, but suddenly every house seemed to be emblazoned with ‘Beware of the dog!’ ‘Beware of the Staffordshire bull terrier!’ ‘Enter at your own risk!’ signs. I’d have thought it was a wind-up, except I could hear the creatures barking madly as I walked up each drive, hurling themselves against the door in a bid to break through and sink their teeth into my leg. I swear one house actually had a wolf. At several homes terror had me hurriedly shoving the leaflet through the door in a crumpled ball, then fleeing down the path – and I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise to the people whose house bore the sign, ‘Please shut gate – Dogs loose!’ You never got your leaflet because I was way too scared to even come onto your property.
And did I mention the letterboxes? They are so difficult to open. I don’t know how postmen do it. Nine out of ten were stiff, heavy contraptions seemingly designed more to keep mail out than to let it in. That’s if you can find them in the first place – I expected the flap to be in the centre of the front door most times, but people seem to put them just about anywhere, bar the roof. On some homes we couldn’t find them at all. It made getting into Fort Knox look easy.
But the third thing I learned was that leaflet-dropping is indeed really good fun if you like meeting people and chatting to random strangers, which I do. Though it helps if they can hear you. I smiled brightly at the first man I came across, offered him a leaflet and gave him a spiel about why he should vote for my boss. He looked at me in confusion, jabbed at his ear, where I suddenly noticed an enormous hearing aid, and barked, ‘What’s that, love? I’m deaf!’
After that, though, I had more success. Most people were pleasant and friendly, and took the leaflet with a smile or a jokey remark (‘What are his expenses?’ one man quipped). And there were those who were kind when they didn’t have to be. After one too many vicious letterboxes, I cut my hand, but didn’t realise until I saw the leaflet I was about to put through someone’s door was covered in blood. Horrified, I found a clean one and was struggling to push it through the letterbox without soiling it as well when the owner of the house appeared.
I expected her to send me packing – a stranger bleeding on your doorstep isn’t exactly a vote winner. But without further ado she dashed into her kitchen and got me a plaster before taking the leaflet with a smile.
Then there was the elderly gentleman standing outside his front door who watched me come up the road with amusement in his eyes. “Get so much per mile, do you?” he inquired as I came up.
We started chatting and he chuckled as he said, “I saw you struggling with my neighbour’s letterbox back there.” This was an understatement – I’d practically had to get an armoured vehicle to force the thing open. “Does the guy not want to receive his mail?” I asked him in bemusement.
The old man laughed again before telling me, “Well, if you feel like a cup of tea or anything, just drop in any time – this door will be open.”
There were the voters who unloaded all their dissatisfaction with the local authorities, reeling off such tales of woe that I half expected them to ask Mike for help with their insomnia or love life. And then there were the grumpy ones who handed the leaflet back, grim-faced, growling, “It’ll only go in the bin anyway. They’re all a bunch of fiddlers.” One elderly man told us gruffly, “I don’t bother – I’ve voted once in the last 50 years.” It always saddens me to hear people say this when so many people in the world aren’t lucky enough to live in a democracy, and I began trying to talk him round until my boss dragged me away, telling me when we were out of earshot: “He’s not voted in half a century – you’re not going to change his mind now.”
But the strangest response of all came from the man in the blue shirt. As I walked up his drive, he came out of the door so I gave him a leaflet, adding as a joke: “I see you’re wearing the party colours!”
He gave me a look which can only be described as withering, before replying stonily: “Well, I’m gay, but that doesn’t mean I have to wear pink!”
For once, I just didn’t know how to reply. “Right. Nice talking to you,” I mumbled, before heading back down the path, reminding myself that humour was a very subjective thing.
By mid-afternoon it was all over – we’d managed to speed up – and I was a little bit tired, but happy. The experience had brought back my days as a reporter, where every day I met all sorts of people, from the difficult to the delightful. It reminded me that much as people like to slate human nature, there are plenty of lovely people out there who are happy to brighten up a stranger’s day with a friendly chat or a kind act. And I was a little sad, too. How many more people are there like that elderly man, who are either so disaffected or so apathetic that they’ve opted out of helping to choose the people who govern almost every aspect of their lives?
I also knew I could never be a postwoman. It’s not the letterboxes, it’s not the dogs, it’s both together – they’re just too much. If I ever fancy a career change, that’s one option I won’t be considering.
About the author
Patrick is an expert Research and Travel consultant. Read his blog at http://blog.holidayextras.co.uk.Tags: blog, council elections, holiday extras, holiday extras blog, kent county council, local elections