Halloween, Hedgehogs and How to Vote

Flamingoes and Hedgehogs By Kate Fagalde 847 Words So there we were, playing croquet by the light of the silvery moon, and the game was made a whole lot easier by the fact that the croquet balls and hoops not only lit up but also flashed. It occurred to me that this might be a somewhat strange pastime but just then, Alice and the White Rabbit wacked a ball straight at my hoop and I knew it was time to grab a flamingo and make it three all. We had been invited to a Halloween Party, the theme of which was “Alice in Wonderland” and having decked ourselves out as the gardeners who were frantically trying to paint the white roses red before the Queen descended on them, we arrived at a house in South Miami that was guarded by Old Father William and a large flamingo. As the crowd grew, I found myself wondering about the homeward journey and whether the Miami Traffic Police would be slightly more lenient if they were to catch the White Rabbit in a speed trap who pleaded “I’m late, I’m late for a very important date”. The Red Queen who was hosting the party had outdone herself on the culinary side of things. Everything that one could expect to find at a croquet tea party was present including a magnificent red rose cake and heart shaped sandwiches. People could quote large portions of the Jabberwokky and Old Father William was word perfect, delivering the lines “Be off or I’ll kick you down stairs” in such tones as made me glad that we were enjoying the festivities in a single story house. It’s no secret that preparing for a costume party is half the fun, and I had approached a very bewildered man who was busy painting yellow lines in our condo carpark, and had talked him into parting with his two empty paint tins. I only had to say the words “Halloween Party” for the light of total understanding to pass across his face and it is so nice to feel that for this weekend at least, the whole country can behave like cheerful idiots and nobody will think any the worse of them. We need a weekend of idiocy before the upcoming week of the election. Within the next five days, one assumes that we will know the outcome but I fear there are many obstacles to overcome before we know the fate of the nation. How much easier it would be to put the protagonists into a darkened room, shut the door and let them slog it out, but instead we are bombarded on a 24 hour basis with never-ending television coverage of who said what and who failed to do what and who would do the better job for the next four years until it was time to go through the madness once more. I did notice a flamingo getting rather hot under the collar last night and was glad when a passing caterpillar poured conversational oil on the somewhat troubled waters. Americans are very forthright in their political leanings and expect you to be so as well. “Who do you vote for” is not a question that is often heard in the Home Counties of dear old England, and despite never having been in the right place at the right time in order to put my tick in the appropriate box, I would feel more comfortable asking someone about their inside leg measurement than I would asking them which side of the political fence they came down on. I have finally gotten to the bottom of the peculiar “Exit Polls” which I discovered requires the voter who has just stood in a two hour queue (if he is lucky) and has finally got to make his private political statement, to now set about filling in yet another long involved form giving his name, rank and number along with a whole lot more personal information which he then deposits in a sealed ballot box, and it is these polls made by those exiting the voting booth that can give a fairly strong indication of which way the wind is blowing. Whatever happened to the good old days of “Let’s wait and see”. By the time the polls have been gathered together and the “Poll of Polls” is up on the score card, nobody can remember what the initial poll was. Like the dear elderly lady who, on being tactfully asked by her loving son as to whether she would prefer to be buried or cremated at the time of her passing, she patted him gently on the hand and said “Why don’t you surprise me dear”. I fear the only surprise we might be in for is the fact that it all went swimmingly well and the result is as clear cut as the crystal waters off the coast of poor dear much maligned Florida. Sadly, looking out of the window, I can see that the waters are still much ruffled and murky following the recent spate of hurricanes; life imitating art perhaps!