Knockin' on heaven's door

Queenie has a lot of blogging catch up to do, she knows. Here she is, over a week back from NJ/NYC and not a thing written about what's going on here in Halifax.

It’s the election d’ya see. She’s busy. She’s been out canvassing.

Queenie likes canvassing. And it’s a little bit different in Canada, so it’s been interesting to learn how it’s done here.

As most of you know, at home in multi-seat proportional representation land, getting the promise out of the householder is more complicated than trading in coffee futures, but it’s all very relaxed.

“Hi, how are ya? I’m here for Proinsias (or whoever). We’re looking for your number one.”

Then you get:

Scenario 1

“Oh, Proinsias, he’s LUUU-VER-LY!!! I always vote for him, don’t I, Jim/ Joe/ Tom?” Jim/ Joe/ Tom grunts from behind newspaper. Then elector’s head sticks outside door, craning around Queenie for a glimpse of the great bearded one.

“Oh, oh, oh, there he is!! Frankie, Frankie.” Waves dementedly until he comes over to see photos of the latest grandchild/ give her a big sloppy one/ help her with some social welfare query/ have a cup of tea/ help her with her bin.

Scenario 2

“That bollix, I wouldn’t give him the steam off me piss.”

In which case you ask for his number two before he slams the door in your face.

No, not that number two! Number two on the ballot paper. Or three, or four.

Scenario 3

“Eastenders is on, ya daft yoke ya. Come back in an hour.”

In Canada, it’s a wee bit more formal.

You have a canvass sheet like you have at home. Upon which you make marks about which Queenie will not speak in case she inadvertantly lets the third secret of Fatima out of the bag.

And you get trained. Properly. Not like in Ireland, where Queenie’s training consisted of being sent to do the top floor of a block of flats in the north inner city on her own, not knowing that there were three psychotic Rottweilers living with three very angry Sinn Fein voters on that floor.

When Queenie finally got the power of locomotion back into her legs, and struggled down the stairs to safety, the two lads who sent her there were buckled with laughter. Leaning against each other with tears pouring down their faces.

Senior trade unionists both of them. And she just a slip of a girl up from the country and as innocent as Edna O'Brien getting off the train.

Queenie got iron in her soul that day. Iron that never left. Iron that got her through splits and rows and feuds and selection conventions and local and general and European elections and by-elections and mergers and christ knows what else, so Canadian canvassing is not going to scare her one liddel bit. No sirree bob!

But in Canada she got to go to a training session. With role-playing scenarios. Which Queenie sat and watched other people doing, in order to memorise the door-spiel.

So now every day Queenie accompanies the candidate if necessary, which is interesting because you get a great feel for how he’s doing, or if he’s canvassing with another Queenie works in the office, or goes out with an experienced canvasser (Queenie is now fully resigned to starting ALL over again in Canadian politics so she will just an ‘also’ to this and get over herself and her ego).

Here’s two questions Queenie’s been mulling over in her head all day. Why do men who live in apartments answer the door to strangers at three o’clock in the afternoon in their underpants? Whilst men who live in houses don’t?

Yesterday she was out with the (also) experienced canvasser, and we did an apartment block. We saw more men in their underpants than Queenie dreamed possible in one afternoon. Unless she was running a brothel in the oil sands.

And one woman.

But Queenie definitely had the advantage over the (also) experienced male canvasser in terms of ‘people answering the door in their underwear’.

Well, advantage might be a bit strong.

It’s actually very difficult to do the whole ‘Hi, I’m Queenie, and I’m here today to canvass for *** in the federal election. I was wondering, can we count on your support for *** on election day?” with a straight face when the person you’re talking to is casually scratching the underside of his left bollock while examining the leaflet you’ve just handed them.

And then sometimes, if you've had a good chat, they'll stick the hand out for you to shake when you're leaving.

Then there was the really pungent smell that wafted out of some doors…

There’s a stereotypical view of Canadians that they’re up at six am on the weekend, heading off to go pond skating, or cross-country skiing, or moose-hunting or whatever, but if you based your view of Canucks on Queenie’s canvassing you’d assume that most Canadians (who live in apartments) sit around in their underpants smoking weed all day Saturday.

There are other similarities with the old country, chief among them being a sort of resigned despair at what seems (to many voters) like Hobson’s Choice. Queenie feels for them. But it’s nothing a bit of reading up on the subject won’t sort out. Even though she knows most people would rather watch paint dry. That’s part of the problem of course, and why to a large extent we’re in the position we’re in today, but voting is an important civic duty, and people die for the opportunity in other countries.

When she was being trained, she was told it was probably best not to lecture people in this fashion if they say they’re not going to vote. So she doesn’t, but she finds it a bit difficult not to when she comes across someone younger than her, who’s all about the beauty of the negativity.

But she suspects that might be because they make her feel old and bourgeois.

The main difference between canvassing in the auld sod and in Canada is the respect you get from voters in Canada.

Nobody swears at you.

Nobody calls your candidate ‘that bollix’.

Nobody slams the door in your face.

Nobody shouts at you about the destruction of the trade union movement.

Nobody blames your candidate or party for their personal circumstances.

Nobody tells you that you personally are selling out the WURHKHURS of 'this country'. As if you're the Paris Hilton of the left and you're off back to the yacht when the canvass is over.

Queenie can’t decide which she prefers. She’ll have a better idea when she’s ‘more experienced’ probably!!