When I was a young lad of about 13 I was hired by the Labour Party (a family thing) to take numbers outside the polling station near my house. Thirty bob for thirteen hours' easy work... You asked the incoming voters for their number (they could say no but never did). Every now and then someone from the house up the street that was Labour's nerve centre (run by the estimable Florrie Yates, God bless her socialist cotton socks) would collect the numbers and find out which folks who had promised to vote for us in the canvassing hadn't voted yet. There weren't many telephones in those days, so by about an hour or two before the poll closed Labour guys such as my dad would drive round to the houses of the yet-to-voters to get them out to vote, lift provided gratis (my Auntie Kathleen would only turn out if she was offered a lift, the only time she'd ever get a chance to have a ride in a car). Alongside me at the polling station was an absolutely beautiful young lady, also aged 13, who did the same job for the Tories. Her name was Judith Barlow. We were both there for a good few elections and we regarded each other as girlfriend and boyfriend, though, as I recollect, our respective skins never made even the slightest contact. The emotional frisson, immature though it was, was mighty all the same. Very formative. I wonder what became of her.

All very 'umble stuff, but I'll tell you what, it was democracy alive and kicking at its very best and it left a mark on me that persists to this day. Aye, lad!