Rural life: the political side

So, it's election day.

The Old Man and me go off to the hall in the next village, clutching our voting cards. Quite busy really.
We go through the doors, and I see, in the lobby, a woman with a list, and a rosette not of our own voting colours.

She say: "Could I have your number please?"
I recognise her from the Group and start to smile....
The Old Man's hackles rise.
He growl and bite her head off:
"No. You can't. It's none of your business."
Smile aborted, I follow Shouting Old Man into the hall.

I say: "That's so-and-so. You've met her before. From the Group." (The Old Man's facial pattern recognition factor is nil.)
He reply: "She's not on a horse this time. How was I to know?"

I vote. And rejoin Old Man who has not left the hall yet, so I have to keep company with him past fellow Groupist.

Old Man apologise for not recognising her.
She say: "Quite alright. And you are right. You don't have to give me your number. It's just to check for our own party members...."
He start off again.
I shout "Goodbye" and march away.

I knew life in this Group was not going to work for me. The polite requests to bring the Old Man along to lunches and stuff. I say "No". They don't like taking "No" for answer. Now, one of them understand why I say "No".

Old Man is of course right about his rights. And very vocal in expressing them. It's very admirable. So it just be me that's a wimp, a creep AND a village outcast. Signed, sealed and delivered.