Post-election blues/jazz

The election has just been, poll stations closed an hour or two ago.

On the northern line, somewhere downtown before midnight, a middle class looking young white woman is wrapped in a red scarf and on her bag of leather, potentially fake (‘vegan’), a Labour sticker is already starting to peel off.

Her pretty face is one of sadness this evening and as the carriage travels stubbornly along in an underground system that has seen more general elections than any other, a tear rolls gently down her cheek. Boris has just been predicted to win a landslide and the whole wide world, yes, almost all of central London, is very wet and cold tonight.

The day after, the rain is holding up and in the NHS hospital a Jamaican nurse says a warm good morning as her hand sweeps the surface of the desk and shelves with a damp cloth. “Yes David, I went out to vote yesterday and it didn’t go to plan, but hey, I’m alive and well and we just have to get on with it! Why don’t you go for your cup of tea, dear?!”