I spent polling day crying, belching and nervous farting. I’d long had a bad feeling about the results of the election. I’d booked to go so see a play before it was announced the country would go to the polls on the 12th of December. During the intermission, I needed to throw up. This was not because the play wasn’t good - Matilda Ibini’s work was extraordinary as always - but I had wind trapped in a stomach tied in knots. What I’d eaten for lunch wasn’t sitting properly; I needed to get it out. Wretch as I might, I couldn’t get the food to reverse its course. Eventually, I stopped trying and returned to my seat. My friend Lily suggested fizzy water might help dislodge my discomfort and she was right; I spent the final act of the play with little balls of angry gas quietly leaping out of me. I’d never known politics to take a physical toll on me.
When the house lights went up at the end of the play, after we’d given the cast the standing ovation they so thoroughly deserved, we all reached for our phones. An uneasy hush descended on the theatre and I was certain everyone was looking at the same BBC News notification I was. I locked eyes with Lily and shook my head. “Don’t.” She said. I held her hand hoping to stop the tears that formed in her eyes from rolling down her face. I had to get home.