James Griffin: Sheltering from the political storm

James Griffin. Photo / Dean Purcell

There's an election coming up really quite soon, which is generally quite a big deal in terms of the country and everything. And I suppose I should be writing about it - ignoring the fact that I know bugger all about politics - and turning my mind (and this soapbox) to the state of the parties, to their policies and to their fitness, or otherwise, to govern us.

But, quite frankly, I can't be arsed.

I don't know what it is about this election campaign, but all it is doing for me is filling me with a deep and abiding sense of ennui. I look at the candidates and my heart sinks. I see them on television and their lips are moving so they must be saying something but none of it forms into actually words - blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Even Winston "I Will Govern Alone Or Not At All" Peters, who I normally find immensely amusing, can't rouse me from my torpor.

Maybe it is some kind of Post-Rugby World Cup Stress Syndrome. Maybe the trauma of watching the final, of watching us go so close to the most epic choke of all time, is haunting my spirit. Possibly when Stephen Donald came on to kick what would turn out to be the match-winning goal, the fabric of the universe changed forever and, by comparison, an election campaign seems trivial and unimportant.

Or maybe it is the fact that the trivial and unimportant is actually deeply important in my life right now. Maybe this is what is tuning out the election noise for me. For, after many months of being cast out into the wilderness while the lovely Anthony and his gang took our house apart and then put it back together, the tribe and I have finally moved back into our old house, which is now our newly renovated new house.

Yes, maybe our newly refurbished villa - full of wonders like insulation and the first dishwasher we've ever owned (greatest invention ever) and plumbing that means you can shower for ages and when someone turns on a tap somewhere else in the house all the hot water doesn't suddenly vanish - has something to do with my political ennui. Maybe our new house has become like a shield, blocking out the real world - or at least the part of the real world that involves election campaigns. This could be an even greater invention than the dishwasher.

I tried thinking about the election the other day, when I was in the bath. But the fact I was actually having a bath was simply way more exciting than anything John and Phil and whichever five people are leading the Green Party this week could come up with. Not that there was anything particularly exciting about my bath, other than the fact I was having one. With our old bath, the last time someone used it water poured through the downstairs half of the house. It turned out the flood had nothing to do with the bath and was, actually, the hot-water cylinder giving up the ghost. It still managed to put the kibosh on using the bath for anything other than storing wet towels.

I really do feel I should care more about the election. After all, these are troubled political times: capitalism, as a system, seems to be crapping out all over the globe, plus the globe itself, or the environment part of it that keeps us alive, is also crapping out, so clearly some important decisions must be made - decisions that affect us all, now and well into the future.

On the other hand, the number of toilets in our house has gone up from one to three - and you have absolutely no idea how exciting that is.

So maybe next week I can write about the elections and really turn up the blowtorch on the would-be leaders of this country, exposing their policies as shams and lies and their politics to be nothing more than the politics of expedience and self-aggrandisement.

But until then I have shelves to put up.