Surprisingly for 8:10am, the polling station was doing a brisk business. I asked the official in charge if I could take a photo of his team, but he said no. I asked if I could take a picture of a ballot-box because I might find a use for it one day. I told him that I write a blog, and it would be somewhat entertaining to display and make sarcastic comments about the vessel that contains the dreams and wishes of our fair constituency.
This second request was also denied without stating a reason, possibly on the grounds that if Osama Bin-Laden were to know the exact dimensions of this recepticle of democracy, he would be saved one more task of espionage. I expect the election officials work on the principle that all actions not explictly allowed are implicitly prohibited; which is actually the same rule that most computer programs organise their security.
So anyway, here is my third-the-worst proof that I at least made it to the polling station. The smartly dressed man outside was collecting numbers for the Labour Party. I gave him my number in return for looking after my bike. Of course, thats not my bike in the picture. My bike is much prettier than that.
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