Election tales; great expectations.

The telephone had rung for ages before a quavering, yet exquisitely modulated voice eventually answered my call.

“Hello, my name is Noa, I’m proposing to stand  as the UKIP candidate in your constituency in the forthcoming county council election. I understand from the local party records that you are one of our longest standing members and I’m looking for your support to my nomination. ”

“But I don’t know you. We haven’t met..” Said Miss Lucretia S.

Despite holding a mobile phone, a miniaturised marvel of technology in my hand I suddenly felt that I had been transported back in time to a bygone world that Siegfried Sassoon or Patrick Leigh Fermor would have recognised. Frosty dawn starts to hounds, high tea in the drawing room. I sighed inwardly, this wasn’t to be the formality I had expected.

“I have written to you advising of our recent and forthcoming meetings and our plans to field suitable candidates in the elections.”

“An email? I have received no email from you.”

“Did you receive my letter?”

I’m not aware of it.”

“Nevertheless, as a party member would you please consider supporting my nomination. I can assure you that I am who I say I am. How else could I have obtained your name and telephone number? I’m happy to answer any questions you may have and to call around to Satis House at a time convenient to you in order that I may obtain your signature.”

A long silence prevailed and I thought that Miss Lucretia had perhaps, fallen asleep.

Then, she answered:

“No, that will not be possible. We haven’t been introduced.”

Like the gates of Heaven being closed by Saint Peter upon an unforgiven sinner I knew then that her decision was irrevocable; the logic of Plato, the contrivances of  Archimedes, the oratory of Cicero would have no effect whatever upon a code of etiquette that I had thought gone before Evelyn Waugh had penned “The Loved One.”

And yet, put into my place, I felt admiration and respect. Stumped though I was, it was me, after all, who had been in the wrong.

“I quite understand Miss S, I’m very sorry to have troubled you and I apologise for doing so. Good day to you.”

“Good afternoon to you, young man.” She replied.

As I pressed the disconnect button on my phone I instantaneously moved forward 80 years, to a time where I was now fighting to regain something of that more ordered and certain society of which I had just breathed.

And yes, it is a long time since I had been addressed, or perhaps, dismissed, as ‘young man’.