Friday. Woke up, which, at my time of life I consider a really good start to the day.

Polling day. I love polling days. I like voting. In Co Down and, then, for the last 40 years, in Co Kildare, I have voted. I have a blameless record. Not once, North and South, have I ever managed to get anyone elected except maybe, perhaps, on a fifth transfer twice removed in a European election about 15 years ago.

But it is the thought that counts.

The day gets off to an even better start as I spy, at the breakfast table, yesterday’s post. A missive from the NUJ that looks like . . . yes it is, a demand that I vote. Not in the general election, you understand, but for the ethics committee or somesuch of the NUJ. Thoughtfully, bearing in mind most of their electorate would be British, they include a page explaining that the vote will be under the single transferable vote (STV) system. They go on to explain exactly what the STV system entails and what we, the electorate should do.

We should mark the paper in order of preference: 1,2,3,4, just like (they don’t say this) an Irish election. Good, I’m going to get in a bit of practice before I pop up to the national school to not vote for the next government.

Then things start to fall apart. There are only two candidates for the ethical whatsit. How do you have an STV election with only two candidates? They could have reverted to the traditional British first past the post system and got the same result.

Anyway, I vote and post it when I collect The Irish Times from the post office.

Retired panjandrum

Go for a swim. Meet a retired panjandrum from Kildare County Council as I trot to the pool. "We have been voting here for 40 odd years", I said to him, "and this is only the second time we didn't get polling cards before an election."

“Don’t worry” he said. “Happens all the time. Just turn up with identification and away you go.”

So we swam. We dried. We reclothed and we went to vote.

But we didn't vote. "I'm sorry, Mr and Mrs Turner, you are not on the list."

We looked. We checked. They were right.

Went home. Had a cup of tea. Felt miffed. Deflated.

Regrouping, I rang the council. They were very helpful. “You were taken off the list last September.”

“Why? I hope it was something I said,”I said.

“Don’t know. I’ll ring you back.”

She did. “At the last election your polling cards were returned undelivered. We sent you letters in August to check if you were there. They were returned as well.”

“Really. What was the address?”

She told me.

“But that hasn’t been our address since 1976. The house has stayed put, hasn’t shifted since it was built in 1790, but our address has changed four times. We were Naas, then Kilcullen, then Brannockstown, then Ballymore Eustace. Now we are something else. It’s lucky I’m a trained geographer, I have been able to cope.”

She was apologetic. She would send out forms. I gave her our real address. “Would you like the nice new infallible, can’t be beat, a cure to all our addressing ills, €50 million postal code?” I asked, ever helpful.

“No,” she said, “the computer doesn’t really recognise them”.