My first time

Letters from a Swing Voter

This week, I was doorstepped for the very first time. I was, until then, a political-porch virgin, as it were. Like the majority of ‘first times’, it was awkward, a bit uncomfortable, brief and not particularly rewarding for at least one of us involved.

It strikes me I’m a bit old to be popping my front-door cherry for the first time. I’m sure many of you reading this are far more experienced than I – notching up your visitors, learning new tricks, displaying prowess and savvy when it comes to inviting people into your home and knowing when it’s time for them to, ahem, leave.

A flashback to my pale imitation teenage years, I was momentarily wracked with stabbing questions: “What’s wrong with me?”, “Am I a political prude?” Why, quite frankly, had it taken so long for someone to come a’knocking? The poor visitor in question was veritably seized upon, namely for my keenness, but she was also sporting rather blue lips and fingers and I feared she’d not live to make it to the end of the road, given the fashionable sub-arctic temperatures we’ve been enjoying.

Once inside, I panicked about what might be the appropriate technique. Should I take her coat, offer her a drink or something to eat? Did she need the loo? Did she want something hot to warm her up, or is that a bit forward, you know, I don’t mean it that way of course, but gosh this is all a bit sudden and I wasn’t really expecting it, and hasn’t it suddenly got warm inside? And maybe I should get some water, or something stronger perhaps. Yes, maybe we both need something to calm our nerves before we get on with this, err, business.

Needless to say, it was over in minutes. She’d run out of pamphlets to leave with me, so I tragically made her write her contact details on the top of my Observer after much fumbling around for a pen. I doubt she’ll find it in herself to come back for more.

However – and here is where I at last reveal a little about my context – it forced me to think about my local MP seriously. Where I live, in North London, is true mixed bag, and Lynne Featherstone has done a good job in addressing contentious issues, from the planned closure of Whittington A&E to the legacy of Baby Peter. According to TheyWorkForYou, she’s voted favourably to my moral leanings, and I’m delighted to see she’s only used three-word alliterative phrases, such as ‘she sells seashells’, 113 times in debates; apparently that’s under average. Good for you, Lynne.

Lynne’s seat is safe for her, in that it is well beyond the reach of the Conservatives, but it’s a closer race between the Lib Dems and their nearest rivals, Labour. The question this presents, of course, is how does this change my vote? What if, ultimately, my current local MP doesn’t represent my favoured party – do I vote tactically? Is it right that thought and deed commit to different things? It’s like having a steady, reliable partner but wandering into fantasies about that hot new acquaintance. The one that could change your world if you were brave enough to admit it.

Actually, if I’m honest, it raises another issue. I’ve never voted Lib Dem before, so it appears that now would be an easy time to start – no need to rock the boat on the relatively calm seas of N6. So is that my answer? I feel a little deflated, if it is. Where’s the passion? Where’s my chance to flirt and experiment? More depressingly, is my first time going to be my last time?

No, I roar! I’ve been emboldened by my first doorstepping, and it marks a new chapter in my political journey. One that forces interaction, excitement and possible rejection. Maybe Lynne will be my woman after all, but I’d like to sow my seeds a while before I make that decision. Because your vote, like your virginity, shouldn’t be something you give up for just anybody.