Ink

My two-year-old came with to the voting station this morning. I asked who she was going to vote for. “I’m voting for mummy and daddy.” If elected, I promise to be the best mummy and daddy I can be.

Later in the day, listening to my favourite radio station, and the announcer is griping about how the ink they use to mark ones finger really messes with ones pedicure. I guess some folks really do vote with their feet.

My vote is my secret. Of course, I’m terrible with keeping secrets. I spoilt my ballot. I voted for everyone and no one. We have a ballot sheet that spans several A4 sheets. Many political parties. Little plurality.

One candidate used to be my boss at Awkward Park. His campaign slogan? “Everyone will eat cake!”. Or some such. Shameless. So, I told him to go on a diet. Oh, and I told Maimane to keep his money (I’ll keep my vote, thanks).

I am disillusioned. People died so that I can have the right to vote. On election day, all things are equal in the most unequal country on earth. An old man was bumped to the front of the queue. The rich young people had to wait.

But I can’t help but think that the vote is a panacea for the disillusioned. Tomorrow that old man will still be old and I will still be richer than him – in life and wealth. So, what’s the point really?

Anyway, I heeded the call and cast my ballot. Totally messed up my pedicure. Ultimately, the only vote that matters to me is the one my daughter cast. She voted for mummy and daddy. And that’s enough for me.

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