Support quality, independent, local journalism…that matters

From just £1 a month you can help fund our work – and use our website without adverts. Become a member today

It began, as these things often do, with persuasion – the gentle kind that somehow ends with you standing for election. I was “encouraged” to be the Green Party candidate in the Caerphilly by-election. At 83, I’d imagined my campaigning days were behind me, but apparently, no one had told the local Greens that retirement is meant to be restful.

Letterboxes and Acrobatics

Canvassing, I discovered, is not for the faint of limb. Some letterboxes are so low you need to kneel; others are so high you need a ladder. And then there are doors with no letterboxes at all – silent fortresses that seem to have opted out of democracy entirely. One day I’ll write a book: A Survey of Caerphilly Letterboxes – and How to Survive Them.

Stormy Encounters

Most doorstep chats are friendly enough. But every now and then, you meet someone whose passion for politics could power a small wind turbine. One gentleman became so animated that the air around him turned to drizzle. I made a mental note: next campaign, pack rainwear – not for the weather, but for the voters.

The Art of Not Voting

Some residents will talk for ten minutes about what’s wrong with the world – roads, bins, buses, potholes, politicians – and then finish with: “But I never vote.”

It’s an extraordinary level of political engagement, ending in total abstinence.

Tactical Geniuses and Yellow Lines

Then there are the strategists. One man said he was voting Plaid “to stop someone else,” though he wasn’t quite sure what Plaid stood for. Another said he wouldn’t vote unless someone painted yellow lines outside his house so others couldn’t park there. A few days later, I noticed a Reform poster in his window. Either Reform promised him the lines, or he’s still waiting for a miracle from the Highways Department.

Selfies and Social Media

When I was young, a politician only had to walk and talk at the same time. Now you have to walk, talk, take a selfie, and post it online before you’ve reached the next doorstep. Apparently, if it’s not on social media, it didn’t happen. Trying to master Instagram at 83 is like learning to juggle flaming torches on a bicycle.

The Age Advantage

Still, being 83 did have one advantage – it made the eventual winner, Lindsay Whittle, look like a young whippersnapper in his 70s. I was doing my bit for youth representation.

What It All Means

Jokes aside, many people I met weren’t sure what they were voting for, only what they were voting against. That’s the challenge for all of us – to make politics about ideas again, not just opposition.

So I’ll keep going, door by door, leaflet by leaflet. Because even when you’re 83, soaked through, and trying to post a soggy selfie, you can still believe that a greener, fairer future is worth knocking for.