Elections
Street-level campaigning
Lawrence Reddaway
Another election. I'm glad they didn't hold it in the summer, but even this one won't be as good for me as the last one. That was in February, You will remember, when it was dark by the time I was free to do my share of the donkey duties that a British election requires. Really, for me the last election was ideal because half the street lights had been extinguished by the three day week. That, you will recall, was what the election was all about. The politicians all regretted it, railed against it, and placed the bame for it in other places. But I, at the lowest level of the party organisation, relished the darkness which it brought to the streets of the housing.estate where I live. What foul deeds, what dubious tactics, what Political machinations was I embroiled in last Winter? Alas, none. At my level of political activity, anonymity is the aim. I was one of the unseen party workers who delivered leaflets 10 use by house, street by street, night by night. it was we who interrupted the soporific television of suburbia by causing the letter box to clunk at a time when no self-respecting Postman would be out on the job. This unexpected sound at the front door caused Many a human frame to rise from its armchair and leave the well-known politician's platitudinous face unattended on the television screen. Through the letter box I had just placed a leaflet, probably just as platitudinous as the voice in the empty lounge. The voice reached every home at the impersonal flick of a switch, but the leaflet was personally delivered. This Was 'grass-roots politics.' BY the time the occupant of number 34 had reached the leaflet on the floor of the hall, I was already at the door of number 36: even the Personal delivery was most impersonally ,arranged. The darkness helped to hide the fact 'flat really at election time we cared not for People, but only for votes. There was no time to talk face to face with electors — there was too Much logistical work involved in distributing leaflets. It was easier to put the argument superficially to everyone than in depth to even a few.
, But for all the superficiality and oupersonality of comrnonication by leaflet, an hour of delivering leaflets can be rewarding. I had never thought about letter boxes before in detail, but now I reckon myself an expert, and Ein glad to say that, generally, the newer the "Ouse, the better the letter box. But some houses only ten years old have letter boxes so designed that to deliver is to risk a finger amputation. Some are so small that anything larger than a postcard has to be folded to fit through them, and others are so stiff that anything thinner than a Readers Digest has not a hope of forcing an entry unaided. Some are
arranged as vertical slits with the flap hinged at the top to make it as hard as possible to open. Many a draught-preventing flap fitted to the inside of ' a door has caused even the best written leaflet to fail the easy-entry test.
It's not only the -dastardly designs of the letter boxes themselves that have raised my admiration for the British postman. In some houses, they are so thoughtlessly placed — so close to the ground, or almost out of reach near the top of the door, or some distance from the door inconspicuous in the framing of the storm porch. One house always had a row of milk bottles blocking its ground level letter box. Did the occupants never receive mail? Or did the postmen regularly move the bottles? Or was there some complex arrangement with the milkman andthe postman?
The cover of darkness tempted me to take advantage of the open nature of the housing estate by frequently crossing from one garden to the next without returning to the street in between. So often there was no fence at all, and a few odd footprints outlined on the frosty lawns were the only traces of my time-saving methods. Sometimes I had to push between shrubs or jump a low fence. Always I felt slightly guilty at cheating thus, and hoped that any discovery would not reflect badly on 'my party. So often a house would provide thoughts for the seconds before I reached the next one. A smell of curry would evoke racialist thoughts of "surprising to find Indians here." Many an uncurtained window caused me to covet my neighbour's colour television set. A garden scruffier than mine brought solace to my conscience. Hearing sounds of a family row, I speculated about its origin and its conclusion. An empty hotise brought poignancy to the arguments about housing shortages and mortgages. And the remorseless close packing of houses reminded me of how crowded these isles are. A car in every drive was an apposite reminder of the great transport question. Children's bikes, and toys set me thinking around the fringes of the great world issues of expanding population and limited resources. Such thoughts alternated with the trivia of the task in hand — the gates that would not close properly, the houses that had no number clearly visible, the leaflets that had not been folded, the fingers that were becoming numb with cold. A rival poster in a lounge window would bring me back to the intensities of the political fight in hand. Was it better not to let the opposition know how hard we worked? Or might they instead be demoralised and give up? Or perhaps the wife might vote for us even if her husband put up the poster? No time to think — treat them all alike, feed them all the same leaflet fodder. Even if these households didn't relish their free wastepaper ration, I had some goodftxercise and good thoughts while dispensing it. And when I got home I could glow self-righteously at the thought that I had done my bit for the party and not even feel guilty that I hadn't seen my party leader on television.
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