Voting by Telepathy

Today we had municipal elections in France. What makes it just a little more interesting is that, the way the media want it to be, it is a test to see how the national politicians are doing. For some strange reason, local issues about cultural issues, the creation of leisure centers, commercial estates take on gigantic proportions culminating in a test how the popularity of the President. According to the press, based on opinion polls, M. Sarkozy's attempts in government have been met with rejection by the people. Now, the press were eager to prove that they were correct.

My small role in this national debate took a slightly more different course. I took the method of voting one step beyond any 21st. century internet voting. My vote was sent by telepathy. So, I hold two awards this evening. The first being my voting method, the second I will mention later.

It only occurred to me about a week ago that I too would be eligible to vote in the municipal elections. European Union citizens may vote at that level in their towns of residency even if they are not of the same nationality. At least, that is what I had heard somewhere years before. But the problem hadn't really presented itself in the past because I could exercise my democratic right on "home turf" as it were and everything seemed automated. Calls for election cards simply popped up in the letter box about 4 weeks before polling day.

I kept an extra eye on the incoming mail, expecting a little card of some description to pop through telling me that I could vote, where I should vote and when all this was possible. Nothing came. Well, I thought, this is France, they do things differently here, maybe you don't get a card, you just pop to the polling booth, flash your ID card and somehow it all works.

Breakfast was spent reading up on the two choices I had. The incumbent Mayor's campaign seemed to be set around past achievements. His challenger seemed to have a more clear cut approach to what he wanted to do. It also made interesting reading of the local who's who. Delphine's mother (Delphine runs a jewelery shop next to Jean Marc (Hair cutter). Her father Vincent, wanted our place but got in too late and now bears a grudge) it transpired is a beautician. Another name that had mystified us was Tyburn. Not a common French name and who had a massive house opposite the local swimming pool. So, he turned out to be French after all. His job as an Engineer explained the house.

After careful study I made my choice and armed with that, proceeded to make my way to the "Marie", feeling part of the community and prepared to do my bit in shaping it. Even if I am a foreigner here. I was armed with my Wilderbeest ID card, the scrap of paper issued by the Police Municipal which confirmed my residency and just in case that wasn't enough, I took the latest electricity bill with me, hoping that nobody would notice that it was still unpaid. Walking through the back way, I came to Bureau No. 6 with a slight bustle of activity. But I was determined to cast my vote at the local center of power, at the "Marie" itself. Walking in, I was confronted by a large poster explaining the 25 different sorts of identification - I could produce some of them (electricity bills not included). I marched in and explained my situation. The two women sitting behind the desk asked if I were on "la liste". I was confused, I wasn't standing for election, I wanted to vote. I waved all my legitimacy and they cross referenced it on a computer print out. Non, my name was not listed. I was not on the electoral role and therefore could not vote. Peut etre prochaine, en 2015.

Feeling deflated, I wondered off home but cast my mental vote.

In the evening, I decided to see what was going on in the Marie. The town was its usual self, only that the local office of the regional paper was at work and the offices of the Police Municipal were open too. But La Vignette had closed early, the Courrone was still open. The town was quiet. The doors of the Marie were still sporting the "Bureau No 1" sign. Undecided, I walked on then backtracked and saw one of the local police march out with two pieces of paper and a staple gun in his hand. Somewhat unceremoniously, he held the papers against the door and with a loud "Twack" fastened them there.

I was over in an instant to claim my second award, being the first member of the public, outside the press and council system, to see the results. My telepathy had gone to the winner of the first round. Perhaps he will clinch the deal next Sunday.