There is a party on my street celebrating VE-Day that I’m deliberately avoiding by sitting on a deckchair, here in my back garden, with a cool Corona beside me. I can hear the polite cacophony of middle-class jubilation well enough from here. Laughter, the occasional calls for ‘cheers!’, and an endless loop of music from generations before mine. Vera Lynn has sung The White Cliffs of Dover around nine times during this afternoon, and doubtless many more times elsewhere.
The sky is blue, and there is barely a breeze worth mentioning; Perfect weather for a good voting turnout, though I suspect that even in lashing rainfall we would still smash records for these elections.