Approaching the Polling Station the way ahead was clear and following close behind was a gaggle of retired folk. I went through the outer door and made for the entrance to the inner sanctum, where the officials reside. Mid-stride, I was accosted by an "unidentified, suited and clip-boarded older man" strategically positioned in the foyer.
"What's your number?" he asked, sharply and without any semblance of manners.
"Are you talking to me?" I retorted.
"Yes. I need your number. The number on your polling card."
"Can I see your official ID?"
"Er, no, I don't have one."
"A name-badge, perhaps?"
"No."
"So what is your official responsibility here?"
"I record the numbers of the voters."
"Are you a proper election official?"
"Er, well, not quite."
"Well, you're not recording my number. I don't know who you are or what you'll do with my number. For all I know, you could peddle the data to the highest bidder regardless of the consequences, and judging by the way you haven't concealed the information taken from your previous victims, you appear to have no regard to the confidentiality of such information. I'll disclose my details to the properly-registered and approved officials in the other room - you have no right to ascertain my number, and I have no obligation to disclose it to you, so please stop harassing me. Oh, and next time, try using some manners... you know, those things that you older folk complain that "the youth of today" don't have. "
The gaggle of retired folk was by then in a state of confusion. It appeared that none of them had ever wondered what the "unidentified, suited and clip-boarded older man" did with the numbers. Quite a few of them had never realised that he wasn't even an official. Not many of them disclosed their numbers to him.
After voting, I walked back past the rude "unidentified, suited and clip-boarded older man" and went outside. A couple from the "gaggle" were waiting for me. I was expecting trouble, but instead got thanks and a handshake.
Knowledge, not politics, is power.
