Tuesday April 12th 2016
Christine Grahame, SNP Candidate Midlothian South Tweeddale & Lauderdale writes her regular monthly column for Midlothian View from the campaign trail.
“OK I now you are up to your neck or at least up to the recycle bin in political leaflets but hey that’s what democracy is all about with all those volunteers of whatever political hue pasting and posting in all weathers to try to bring the arguments to you. Yes it can be annoying but think of all the other airts where if you step out of line with the authorities, you may lose your liberty, curtailed though that is, or even your life. Sermon over!
Now being one of those souls trying to work out how to open your gate, to find the letterbox ,and yes they come in all shapes and sizes and heights, how to overcome those devilish letterbox brushes guarding your post, I am not seeking sympathy, just understanding. You see, that big dug growling at the window unbeknown to you lives in the currently fashionable open plan house and before your fingers have been safely extricated having delivered yet another political leaflet, he’s on the other side of the door, big and brutish and like an Exocet missile targeted your precious digits.
Before we, the leaflet team that is, set out there is the rendezvous when you are allocated an area to disturb (distribute). So it came to pass that there we were at Scotmid Gorebridge duly assembled and I was to follow the “Red Car” to our destination. Well I did as told and became quite cross as the Red Car shot off at break neck speed with me trying to keep up tailing it closely. We swung round a sharp bend and came to a sudden halt. out steps a stranger giving me even stranger looks. Ah, wrong Red car……
Now on the up-side it should lead to lost weight and fitness. All those steep steps to climb, roads built like lost ski slopes. I’m thinking in particular, Gorebridge and Penicuik. Then there is the wind as you reach those high spots, blowing your leaflets down the street as you desperately run to gather them up. Wet leaflets which fail every attempt to thrust through those resistant letter boxes (I have letter boxes on the brain). But after all that, the waft of the chippy is calling and what better to end that day with a poke of chips or fish supper eaten, as they say in France, en plein air. Bum on the dyke. That does not refer to the candidate.
Then there was the obligatory photo shoot with a lamb, preferably orphaned. Scheduled for a wet Tuesday, I should have known all would no go to plan with darkened clouds above. Well how true. The field was ankle deep in mud; lambs quite rightly will not be caught and not even for a photo shoot. Eventually one lamb ,tiny and very grubby, was bribed by the bottle to be held by me. As for my boots, my jaiket and jumper-all were ripe for the wash. However as the farmer told me, celebrate the mud, it’s organic!
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