May 6: Polling day

Voting is an uphill struggle. Literally. One excruciatingly steep and winding road to begin, then one very busy thoroughfare to cross at a time of blood-draining light-headedness, then two more lung-bursting slopes to get to the polling station. Clearly, no one cares if eight-month pregnant women make it or not. Let alone if they have enough energy left to put a cross in the right box. I did not appreciate the slog. More importantly, I did not appreciate the fact there wasn't any cake. How to get more people to vote? Provide cake. Easy. During my arduous journey, I also realised I am very bad at crossing roads. I am used to just darting out in front of any old thing and being able to make it across in one piece. My mind hasn't yet caught up with my body. I can no longer dart any more than a rhinoceros can tip-toe. I cannot even attempt a quickened-pace. I think, 'Ooohhh cripes, didn't see him coming, better hurry.' My body thinks, 'No'. As a result, my ill-timed road-crossing meant I just nearly got squished by an artic. Still, at least I was on the way back. My vote to make the world a better place would have still counted - even if I'd been steam-rollered.