By the time you read this, I’ll be like the Eurovision performers waiting for the votes to come in. The most nerve-racking day in the election campaign is polling day. It’s the day you have to let go as there’s nothing else you can do except wait. During the limbo between the closing of the polling stations and the opening of the ballot boxes, all kinds of thoughts can run through your head.

In the last few days of the campaign, I began to imagine what I’d do with myself if I lost my seat. The prospect of being without a job or a purpose in life isn’t beyond the bounds of possibility, this election is different and I’m depending on a lot of people who don’t know me from Adam to vote for me.

I was out canvassing the last few doors in Killdicken when I found myself on Superquinn’s doorstep.

“Come in you eejit,” says she. “The campaign is over, you’ll have tay. Don’t you know I’ll be givin’ you the number one, but only because you’re the best of a bad lot.”

“That’s a relief, if I wasn’t getting the number one from you I’d be fecked entirely,” says I.

“How will it go?” she asked.

“I don’t know, with the new expanded area I couldn’t tell you. But I’ll hold my own around here I suppose.”

“You’d never know,” says Superquinn. “People are quare.”

“That’s feckin’ reassurin’,” says I.

“What will you do with yourself if you lose the seat?” she asked.

“That kind of a question is certainly a vote of confidence,” says I. “But I’d be telling you a lie if I said I hadn’t thought about it. I’ve heard a rumour that Lily Mac is about to retire from the post office and I was askin’ myself if I could do that job.”

“You’d be a feckin’ disaster,” says she.

“I think I’d be great at it. Dealin’ with the people, havin’ the craic and gettin’ the news of the whole place. A perfect job for me.”

“Maurice,” says she. “You’re an administrative disaster and as sure as eggs is eggs the paperwork would pile up and you’d find yourself in the High Court or Mountjoy.”

“You’re doin’ wonders for my confidence,” says I.

“But here’s an idea,” says she. “We could do the post office together, I’d keep the paperwork and you could be out front keeping the punters happy.”

Now ’twas my turn to give a little dig.

“I suppose customer relations isn’t your strong point,” says I. “I wouldn’t fancy facin’ you for my pension on a Friday evenin’ if I was a minute late. I’d nearly prefer to go hungry for the week.”

“I’ll choose to ignore your insults,” says she.

“And what am I supposed to do with yours,” I asked.

“I wasn’t insultin’ you, I was simply statin’ facts. But Maurice, I think it’s a great idea for us to take over the post office. Whether or not you win your council seat, it’s somethin’ we should think about.”

“Wouldn’t people start talking about us, wonderin’ like are we more than business partners, sort of thing.”

“Sort of thing my arse. I suppose the people of Killdicken have nothin’ better to be doin’ than wonderin’ if the new postmaster and postmistress are rompin’ between the parcels and the packages? Anyway, sure wouldn’t that add a bit of spice to the place?”

“Let me see if I can win the council seat first,” says I.

“Well you’d want to be thinkin’ of a plan B,” says she. “Because if you have no council seat, you’ll have no income and nothin’ to do all day but eat and drink, you’d be dead in no time.”

“Do you give out tablets with your advice?” says I. “I’m goin’ home feelin’ a lot worse than I did when I came in.”

“I’m only trying to be realistic,” says she. “There’s no guarantee you’ll keep your seat in the new electoral area, you don’t know what will happen. I’m simply sayin’ you should have options. A joint venture with me in the post office is the most realistic one.”

“Well,” says I. “I could go farming.”

“On 22 acres in Lisnapookybawna? Sure the feckin’ magpies die of the hunger out in that place.”

“There is always the Church, they’re very short of manpower at the moment, I could get a late vocation,” says I.

“Late is what you are,” says she. “By the time they’d have you trained you’d be fit for the nursin’ home.”

“I wont give this any more thought till the votes are counted.”

“Well, I’m just warnin’ you to be prepared,” says she.

Oh me nerves. I could be on the live register the next time I talk to ye.