The Political Door-stepper.

Arms in the suds, avoiding the sliver of steel on the World’s Sharpest Knife, The Beatles accompany me. I am the dish washer.

Knock-knock-Tching — someone’s done the double-knock-lift-the-letter-flap thing. It’s what we have in lieu of a doorbell.

Who? What?

“Hi we’re from The Disconnected Party, we’re just talking to residents today to find out about…”

Ah those, must be electioning time again. Insincerity you could cut with a knife and I wouldn’t need the one that may be lurking in my suds. Speaking of, did I get that knife out of the sink my brain wonders while their words go on.

Peace offering leaflets are held out. I manage to say something about parking killing the high street. One sentence, nine words.

My brain during the actual few seconds I spoke thinks all of these things: I hate having to google going anywhere to figure out a) if they have free parking b) if so when can I park c) if not when, where, how can I pay and how much — what a fucking joke. It’s as if they want the High Street to die, they may do, the plot may be darker than I think. Perhaps they are more evil, duplicitous, malignant than I can imagine. Perhaps though, it really is mundane banality, little people fulfilling little roles in a mistaken belief they are making things better rather than killing us slowly with their maniacal hunger for power and control — this is how my thoughts wander although I only spoke nine words.

Nine words.

In a nanosecond their grins are rictus, or was it before I spoke, I cannot be sure. Their bodies lean back, literally on their back foot — people to see, doors to knock, more important things, this is campaigning don’t you know, yes of course we value your views but just for two seconds only, what we really care about is your vote. They don’t say it of course. Truth would shatter the illusion. Truth is not their friend.

This is the illusion, we came, we care, honest.

Later.

“Shit” my finger bleeds, sliver of steel drawing blood, quickly dispersed, turning the Fairy water unbearably light pink. The Jam song Start! is on …

It’s not important for you to know my name
Nor I to know yours
If we communicate for two minutes only
It will be enough

And what you give is what you get
And what you give is what you get
And what you give is what you get
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