AS soon as the sun started to shine in London it was as if someone had shouted "Strip!". They stood half naked outside the pubs, pints in hands and faces upturned to the hot sky. In the parks they lay out on rugs in shorts and bikinis, their skin glistening with oil. They had dragged tables and chairs out into front gardens and people without gardens draped themselves over steps and footpaths. It was only the first day of May but there was terrific heat in the sun - and those who live in a city of nearly 12 million people will take any opportunity at all that might suggest closing their eyes and pretending it's Midsummer's Day.
And even at the polling station in a west London school there was a holiday air. A woman with sunglasses on her head, two small children by the hand, came to the gate of the little school.
"Don't talk to anyone at all, just look at all the lovely pictures the other children have drawn while Mummy votes," she said.
"I want to vote," said the five-year-old.
"Not now, darling, later, look at the nice pictures on the wall."
"You never let me vote."
The seven-year-old was examining the art work. "These are no good. Our school is better," he pronounced.
"Shush darling, they're doing their best, it's a very little school."
"It's a normous school," said the child.
"I meant they don't have all the marvellous classrooms and lots of good teachers like your school does."
"It's an awful school Mummy, why are you voting here?"
"It's where we vote darling, now do look after Charles."
"I want to vote," said Charles in the querulous tones that he may still have in 13 years' time when he is allowed to vote.
"Charles darling, just a little patience for Mummy then we buy mangoes and ice-cream, all go to Grandmother's garden for a lovely, lovely visit."
"I hate grandmother," said Charles.
Most people smiled tolerantly at each other as if to acknowledge that children always speak their minds.
"I bet she hates you, too," said an old unshaven man bent over a stick, a bottle of ginger wine peeping from his pocket.
It did the trick and silenced Charles and his discontented elder brother. They stood fearfully in the small, run-down school, worrying about what the future might hold for them.
IN the restaurant the waitress said that she was doing her own poll. She asked every single person who came in which way they had voted and amazingly as soon as they had got over the shock of breaching the secret ballot they all told her.
"It's going to be a landslide," she said cheerfully to the owner as she bustled through the In door and the Out door of the kitchen.
"You wish," said the dour owner who had worked out with two accountants and a man from, a money house that he would be marginally better off if the Tories won, but that the country was going down the tubes no matter who won.
"Aren't you excited?" the waitress asked him.
"Takes a lot more than a bit of unscientific research bothering the customers to make me excited," he said.
"It's not unscientific, we get them from every walk of life here."
"I'll bet my whole week's wages Labour gets in with a majority of over 160," she said.
"Your week's wages? Don't be so foolish, woman." It was easy winnings but he didn't want to bankrupt the staff at the same time. She was determined, however. She asked three customers to be witnesses to the deal. Even those of us who were not regulars could telephone and make sure that he would honour the bet if she won or lost.
"Don't be specific about the majority," people warned her. But she was a confident, New Dawn Woman. She wouldn't reduce it - 160 or more she said - and went on serving tables, her face full of smiles.
I rang the place yesterday to check the situation. Apparently they had all stayed up most of the night watching the television. When the majority topped 160 the waitress had bought champagne.
"Fine bloody socialist she turned out to be," said the owner glumly. A hangover, a lost bet, the wrong government in power, it was not a good Friday.
"Did you tell her that?" I wondered.
He had, of course, several times during the night but as she poured the champagne she had said that this was what it was all about, champagne for everyone, not just the fat cats.
"Fine bloody grip on reality she has," the owner added, as he bid me farewell.
A WOMAN who works in a factory reports that they all began the day yesterday, by dancing round in a congo line singing they've gone and dumped Portillo... They've gone and dumped Portillo... da da da da da da da da." And it proved so catchy that even the supervisors' and management side of things thought it was funny and sang it too.
The phrase got into people's heads and at lunchtime when, they went to the pub, they started it again and this time the whole pub joined in.
"What's Portillo done to them?" the barman asked.
"He looks like a prat," said a man at the bar.
Not fair to judge the poor fellow by his face, said the barman.
He talks like a prat.
"Oh well, then," said the barman, as the pub danced on.