It’s 10pm. Bong bong bong.
The polls have closed.
The counters are counting.
The psephologist sets his swingometer gently oscillating or her computer blinking.
Mosaics of the map of UK are made out of hexagons and CGI pictures of Downing Street have glowing dots laid down before them.
The Beeb swings into action and fill the air with speculation and analysis, most of it baseless until the results come rolling in.
The candidates put on their faces of triumph or masks of good sportsmanship.
The electoral officials have their minute in front of the nation.
The noise, the nuances, the arguments, all coming down to heads or tails, winners or losers.
Those of us who are going to try and stay up to see the final result can experience something of the fear and suspense of power shifting. For us it’s not the General announcing the coup over the captured radio station, or the old king dying, long live the king. We don’t have to pack our bags or bury our gold or shred our papers.
But there has been a sense of times changing, nationalistic forces upsetting a familiar order.
My prayer – I hope it isn’t too awful.
