In the flesh and at my door
My sense of detachment from “my politicians” approaches absolute. Even though I first voted over half a lifetime ago, I’ve never been in the same room as a federal or provincial prime minister, or within hailing distance of anyone wearing the ceremonial chains of municipal governance. My votes are cast into a black hole. Sadly, all I have to serve as proof of the existence of politicians is a tax bill and the associated ache.
As I checked my postal box this evening, two men passed me and rang my doorbell. This is not the day associated with evangelical visitors. To quote an Australian, “Who can it be now?”. To quote a famous author, “What to my wondering eyes did appear?” but a real live politician. A sitting member, seeking a return to the provincial chambers. Finally, proof of concept.
My spouse isn’t one to let this occasion go to waste, so she immediately broached the idea of an increase in minimum wage. Not for ourselves, but for our children and our society. After all, economics (at least in one school) tells us that if the money is out there then it will be spent. And that’s good, right? The wandering politician affirmed his party’s belief (and their affirmative actions) in this direction.
I took a more mundane approach, letting hime know that I thought seeing a real, live politician was a wondrous event. Claiming a miracle might have been over the top, but I did have the urge. After all, I haven’t had much contact with this strange, rare fauna.
