Magic Boots

Labour of Love

By Simon Buckley

I was staring into space, failing to prepare for the impending selection meeting. “Do you think that I’ll still be able to wear my purple boots if I’m a councillor?” I asked, noticing my feet. My wife looked at me like a mother accepting her cross-dressing son. “Perhaps you should worry about being selected first,” she said, patiently. I turned back to my computer screen and tried again to absorb some information about the ward that I was hoping to be selected for. I’d been told that, at my interview, I’d be asked to give a short speech about local issues. This time last year I was selling bespoke dresses to fashionable ladies, and now here I was learning about mortality rates and the poor condition of fencing.

The statistics were like the DNA of the local area. Clues lay embedded in the detail, and decoding the lives of ten thousand humans, whose existence had been reduced to a 6 page report of graphs and council speak, was hard work. It appeared to be the accumulation of many smaller events, and not one big issue, that affected people’s quality of life. Each fluctuation above or below an average, such as the large number of people with liver disease, indicated that there were stories to be told and solutions to be found. I kicked off my boots and settled down to work.

The branch meeting was the following evening. The list of potential candidates on the panel was strong, and the selection process had been taking place throughout the borough all week. I knew that there was one more candidate than places available, so I was expecting a contest.

I arrived at a neat, terraced house and was let in by an equally neat man called Tom, who was holding a large glass of chilled white wine. He showed me into an empty room and I had a sudden flash of the movie Goodfellas, where Joe Pesci gets whacked as he arrives for a ceremony at which he thought he was going to become a “made” man. I carefully sat down at a large table, and a woman named Sophie, the owner of the house, bounded into the room and offered me a glass of red. The doorbell went and a third person, Mike, then took his place beside me. Tom shuffled some papers importantly and declared the meeting open.

” Am I the only one here?”I asked, looking round for a cupboard, and expecting my rival to burst out like the baddie in Scooby Doo. Tom looked through his notes and read out a long list of apologies, including that of the other candidate who had decided to go on holiday instead. I was reaching for the bottle of red, thinking it was time to party, when Tom said that we would still have to go through the correct process. This seemed absurd. I felt like the Scotland football team when they were famously made to kick off against Estonia, even though Estonia hadn’t turned up. He then informed me that as long as I’d started speaking before anyone else arrived, only the 3 people currently present could vote. “Let’s get on with it then” I said, quickly.

“You’ll have to leave the room, so that we can call you back in.” Sophie said. Shaking my head I went into the front room. I’d barely sat down when Tom asked me to return. I knocked on the door and entered. This was like playing house. I delivered my speech and answered some tricky questions on transport before being asked to go out again, so that they could discuss my interview. What was there to talk about? Was I so bad that in a field of one I was still in second place? The minutes ticked silently by and, just as I was wondering if they were on the phone to see if the other candidate had left the airport yet, Sophie came in. She announced that, following a discussion, I’d been nominated as the Labour candidate for the local elections in 2012, subject to approval by Labour group, as we weren’t quorate. Let’s not go wild, I thought as I followed her back to the table.

Several glasses of wine later, Tom casually mentioned that not only would I be expected to attend the new candidates meeting the following week, but that I’d “get used to being watched”, which was slightly alarming. There was definitely no going back now. The ward I’ll be contesting is large and I’m going to be meeting a lot of people and doing a lot of walking as I get to know the area intimately. I think I’m going to need a new pair of boots.