Brenda from Bristol – the voice of an agonised nation – put it bluntly: “not another one!”

Her vox pop response to earlier suggestions of another election summed up the views of many ballot weary folk and promptly went viral.

But when it comes right down to it, Brenda, you’re going to have to grit your teeth and get yourself along to the local booths.

Or, given the likely weather, pop that postal ballot off in good time.

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For the thing about elections is that taking part is your only passport to moan about anything which happens thereafter.

I’ve no time for the “they’re all the same” school of lazy thought. Firstly because self-evidently they’re not all the same – and if you can’t tell your Boris from your Nicola, or your Jo from your Jeremy, then you really, really do need to get out more.

And secondly, there’s absolutely no point in going on electoral strike, then spending the next however many years whining about whatever policies the latest Prime Minister plans to foist on the public.

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Winter elections are rare events for very good reason.

My pal in Shetland, a rural dwelling, very politically aware sort of voter, will think twice about how many doors to chap when her sun rises at 9am and disappears again at 3pm.

And, even canvassing in well lit streets, I’ve no doubt there will be a few dusty responses to any visitor planning to have a doorstep disco on Brexit in the middle of a soap opera.

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Plus, this time round there’s the very real possibility that the “mother of parliaments”, which is doing a very credible turn as the “father of all fankles”, will shut up shop for weeks - only to find the voters have yet again come up with a hung Commons.

The Scottish agenda is rather different, since we have more choices about the party to which we plan to plight our troth.

More ability to say “time’s up, pal” if the local MP has proved as effective as a chocolate fireguard. Or is maybe hard-working enough but committed the apparently unpardonable sin of voting a different way in June 2016.

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That nice David Cameron, the man who lit the blue touch paper under Brexit then scarpered to pen a memoir explaining why it must have been another big boy who did it and ran away, has much to answer for.

But he’s much too busy counting the royalties.