I was down in one of those streets not far from the sea at the weekend delivering Labour stuff. I had pre-addressed leaflets: that means they’re targeted to specific voters based on our canvassing information. We don’t bother writing letters like that to Tories or people who are against telling us how they’ll be voting. We prefer the don’t knows, the maybes and the possiblies. Who doesn’t like a teaser, after all? Woof.
For the life of me, I couldn’t find number 45 on that street. I double-checked, I strolled up and down several times looking. 45 was the address on the envelope. The door isn’t there. As I passed him for the second time, a man smoking in a doorway looked at me in a way that suggested he might like me to pop upstairs with him with a view to friendship. I didn’t. But then I’m old-fashioned: I don’t think you should wear your dressing gown in the street after 3pm. Even on a Saturday.
I could find 44 and 46. 43 and 47 are also plainly there. But 45? No. One of our households is missing. Something must be done. I returned home with one, lone letter in hand.
I asked a venerable member of my local party where number 45 is, the day after. He often delivers material down on that street. He said: “Letters for 45, go through door 46. The electoral register has been wrong for years.” That told me.