Dispatch journalist moves out of the dark into the light

I was fast-tracked.

I was standing at Stirling’s Nutting Hall in a queue to vote of about 50 people reading a book – The Tattooist of Auschwitz, in which people were also being shuffled forward for processing, but in a shockingly different queue.

It was about 8am and the weather was cool and kind. I reckoned I could be there for about 45 minutes and I was quite looking forward to it because I don’t often get the chance to read for pleasure.

But only a few pages in, an IEC official came hurrying down the line calling for people whose surnames began with S. That put me right at the top of a second queue and then I was in. Everyone was polite and efficient and helpful. It was over in minutes and I was home by 9am.

On the way home, glancing at the purple spot on my thumb, I mulled my two choices. And wished I believed in a god I could thank for not putting me in that other gruesome queue.