Poll Position

31 May 2012
In the twilight hours I watched the seconds edge forward caught between wanting to sleep and worrying about rising.  I rolled out of bed, pondered briefly what shirt to wear and a little longer on what might be my best choice in footwear.  I had some tea and toast with cheese and was out the door (with Pat) at 0530.

So, there we were in Beirut-driving through the empty streets of Ballymun, admiring the craters and scorched buildings as we rolled into the National school acting as a polling station.  After a short lapse in time spent sitting outside the gates a middle-aged man ventured forward.  He removed the many locks and chains and pulled open the gates.  Another car pulled in at this time beside us.  I got out.  A lady did the same and we two, stood and chatted to the gate-man.  It soon emerged that none of us knew what was happening or what we were to do. No one knew what was going on.  We moved closer to the building and we breached the door; pushing into the polling station.  

We were now in the hub of democracy.

Suddenly, a cluster of people burst into the hall, I thought for a moment the Ballymunions were there to take the station by force.  Fortunately, this was not the case.  There was a flurry of activity as the group of people marched with purpose to the back of the concert hall and each picked up and carried a large black metal box (that usually held the cast votes) to the front of the hall.  They began whipping out scissors, knives and other sharp objects to cut open the boxes and empty their contents.

I must have stuck out like a sore thumb.

Watching with quiet awe these veteran guards of democracy as they quietly went about their roles,
I wandered to the back of the hall. Keen to be seen to do something and not wanting to let the side down, I picked up the box for my station and carried it to my desk.

I was then asked if I was a presiding officer and I dumbly replied yes.  I handed over my letter which the officer quickly dismissed without so much as a glance and told me to empty my box and set up my station.

It seemed as though there was much to learn.
And they urged me to apply the jungle logic-monkey see monkey should do.
Thankfully, the true presiding officer arrived a little after 0630 and my mere seconds of authority were expunged-I was exposed as an imposter-a simple poll clerk masquerading as a presiding officer.  But my deception was not taken to heart.  Instead, I was handed a stack of posters and told to stick them up.

At 0700, the doors were open and we were in business.

One of the first things I noticed about the veterans was the cushion in their hand.  The second thing I noticed was the picnic basket clutched in the other.  Thankfully, I lived off the charity and kindness of others and was offered much tea and food.  Apparently, this is an oversight of many first-time clerks (no doubt it endears them somewhat to their presiding officer).  The breaking of bread at the polling station is an iconic action and one that leaves lasting bonds, bonds that might last for the entirety of the day.  A whole fifteen hours.

The presiding officer of my polling station was a veteran of 9 tours.
She was a groovy granny originally from Cork and ended up in Dublin.
She loved to talk of her family, her kids and grandkids and that one.  You know the one, the problem child in every family.  There were stories...

It was a long day.
I saw some interesting characters.
All were keen to exercise their right to vote.  About 30% of the local population braved the elements to say a simple 'yes' or 'no' to the Irish Government (and the rest of Europe).

They said 'yes'.