Not Written Off Yet

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Although it’s taken me a long time to label myself as a writer, writing has been at the core of all the jobs I have ever done – reporter, PR, marketeer.  But what I most enjoy writing – and reading – are letters.  Among my most precious possessions are airletters penned by my grandmother when, aged 8, I lived in America for a year.  (Her not-so-subtle parting gift to me was a writing case, so that I might write to her too.)  I cherish boxes of letters from old schoolfriends, received when I moved to Germany at the age of 14.

So I was terribly disappointed to discover last year that I’d missed by a few days the deadline to apply for a job writing letters for Steve Webb, our local MP, responding to his constituents’ enquiries and requests.  For a long-term supporter of the Lib Dems, what a dream job that would have been: getting paid for writing about issues that really mattered to society and playing a small but significant part in changing our nation for the better.

My disappointment was short-lived.  In the wake of the General Election, as the new coalition emerged, I decided I’d had a lucky escape.  I would not have relished responding to the wrath of the disillusioned masses.  I began to feel sorry for Steve Webb, even though he’d been elevated to Cabinet Minister. But I still couldn’t stop myself firing off a few letters to him expressing my dissatisfaction with some of the new government’s policies.

Then last week I had the chance to meet him.  He visited the village school to plant a tree donated by Morrisons and I was invited to take photos for the school.  My disenchantment quickly melted away.  He came across as a sympathetic, dedicated representative of our community with a genuine interest in our children.  Some of them will not be eligible to vote for another 14 years, so no cynical fishing for votes there. He may be a Cabinet Minister, but he gave himself no airs and graces.  No formal silver spade for him – he got stuck in and muddy.  And no cynical kissing of babies, either – instead he played “Rock, Paper, Scissors” with the Year 6 boys.

A little later, we spoke briefly and he asked me my name.

“Ah, yes, Debbie Young,” he smiled.  “France Lane.”

My goodness!  I thought.  A Cabinet minister knows where I live!  What stroppy message had I put in my letters to make my address stick in his mind? But really, that doesn’t matter now.  Next time there’s an election, I know who’ll be getting my vote.

(This post was originally published in Hawkesbury Upton Parish Magazine, April 2011)

Young Voters

Image by George Eastman House via Flickr

In the run up to last month’s general election, I felt it was my maternal duty to make my small daughter aware that she was living through a historic moment.

I have a few memories of national and international import from my own childhood.  Kennedy’s assassination, chiefly because it was the only time our next door neighbour came in to our house unannounced and the only time I saw her cry.  Winston Churchill’s funeral: I had no idea who he was, but I knew that he was A Great Man.  The first footstep of mankind on the moon: unlike most British children, I experienced this in the afternoon, because at that point my family lived in California.

So I had not expected Laura to be especially interested in the election, especially considering her school, unlike her cousin’s, was not closed for the day to be used as a polling station.  (What a great way to instil a love of democracy in young children.)  To my surprise, she followed the election news avidly and quickly formed strong and independent political views.

Firstly, she favoured Gordon Brown as “president” because he shared a Christian name with her Daddy.  She also clamoured for an orange diamond on a stick to be displayed in our front garden because her best friend had one in hers.  She liked the local Lib Dem’s alliterative slogan: “Win With Webb” and was gratified when he did.

“Why don’t they make Win With Webb president?” she asked.  “He sounds good.”

Well, there are worse reasons.

She certainly pipped me at the post for early political awareness.  Despite growing up in Edward Heath’s constituency, my main perception of his importance was that he opened my brother’s grammar school fete.  Otherwise, my main childhood recollection of politics was a playground skipping rhyme, each girl stepping into the turning rope as her name was called:

“Vote, vote, vote for little Debbie,

Calling Debbie at the door,

For Debbie is a lady

And she’s going to have a baby

So we won’t vote for Debbie any more.

CHUCK HER OUT!”

To our way of thinking, this dismissal seemed only fair.  Astonishing, then, that the Prime Minister to emerge from first election in which my generation was old enough to vote was a lady by the name of Margaret.  It seems like ancient history now.

(This post originally appeared in the Tetbury Advertiser, June 2010)