Earlier today, I rocked up at my polling station, polling card in hand, and cast my vote to Remain in the EU.
I was handed my card, took shelter in a booth, and read the card. And re-read it. Then read it again. My pencil hovered over the box. I read it again. Then once more for luck. And again, just to be on the safe side.
I wasn’t having second thoughts, you understand, just terrified that I might accidentally put my cross in the wrong box.
I’d developed the condition Ballot Box Battiness.
After reading it another 10, 15 times, I finally did the deed. Folded the paper in half, strode confidently to ballot box, and posted. As my fingers released my voting slip, a voice inside my head whispered “Are you sure you put the cross in the right box?”
Of course I’m sure.
So now it’s all over, bar the shouting.
Well, actually all the shouting’s over. Hopefully.
The votes have been cast, and now I have a long night ahead of me, watching Dimbleby and Paxman into the wee small hours, trying to second guess how the voting has gone until we can finally start to make some sense of what’s happened.
Someone on Twitter described today as like knowing you’ve left the rings on your electric hob on, but having to wait until tomorrow to find out if you’ve burned your house down. Which seems to be a pretty spot on analogy to me.
If you’re a UK resident who was able to vote, I hope that you did.
And I hope that whichever way you voted, you can look yourself in the eye tomorrow morning (I’d recommend using a mirror) and tell yourself you did the right thing.
More than that, and especially if you voted to Leave, I hope you manage to sleep. If I’d voted that way, I’m not sure I would be able to.