Will I, won’t I? Inside a candidate’s mind

Thursday, 3pm

I just had my first burst of election-related optimism. Since putting my hand up for the Greater Wellington Regional Council on the very day nominations closed, I’ve been fairly realistic about my chances – namely, that I don’t have any.

But someone in the know – a political gadfly with typically good instincts – just messaged me out of the blue, telling me I’m going to make the cut (there are 23 candidates, including me, competing for five seats in the Wellington City ward of the regional council). I allowed myself to revel in the thought before my campaign manager brain quickly interjected: ‘‘People that know you bring a host of cognitive biases that skew their predictive powers.’’ Friends and supporters, in other words, are the worst judges of electoral fortunes – except, of course, for candidates themselves.

I am trying to resist the onset of candidatitis at all costs. I’ve seen the emotional havoc brought about by this condition. Primary among its symptoms is the candidate’s belief, often in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, that they are about to win an election. I recall an extreme example from a nineties byelection where the Labour candidate absolutely refused to accept she was losing, despite running third behind National and the Alliance for the duration of the campaign. Because her dire polling wasn’t reflected by the polite response she encountered at cafes, they had to be wrong. They weren’t.

Friday, 4pm

Twenty-four hours from now, the wait will be over. I have discarded any optimism – but I am consoled by doing about as much as I could, given time and resource constraints. It was hardly a long-held dream to run for regional council, but more an act of frustration after the organisation kept behaving in obnoxious ways.

My campaign pitch has focused on fixing the broken public transport system, but it’s also clear the council is failing more generally as a democratic body. It is secretive, out of touch and arrogant. The elected members have been cruising in semi-retirement mode – all five councillors currently in this ward are in their seventies.

On social media, I’d been egging people on to run in an effort to revitalise the joint. When I checked the list on the morning that nominations closed, the names I’d hoped to see didn’t pop up. It was a ‘‘money where your mouth is’’ moment, and I thought ‘‘why the hell not?’’. I’m heading for a hiding, but my campaign was effective in its own way. I don’t regret it. All the signs came down today.

Saturday, 2am

What if I win? All those meetings! Sensible campaign manager brain interjects. Back to sleep.

Saturday, 9am

Coffee No 3. I’ve been chatting with Fleur Fitzsimons, a city councillor running for re-election in Wellington’s southern ward. She describes herself as a ‘‘bundle of energy’’ with a ‘‘sore face from smiling so much’’. But, as Fleur says, ‘‘Nothing more can be done. One more door knock, phone call, won’t matter now,’’ she tells me. She’s too modest to say she’s going to romp in. ‘‘Time, just hurry up,’’ Fleur writes. Another six or seven hours until we find out. Must do a load of washing.

Saturday, midday

I’m binge-watching Succession, which I’ve hoarded for this very purpose; a few ‘‘good luck’’ messages interrupt the viewing. I’ve internalised defeatism in my own case so most of my nerves are directed at other contests like the Porirua mayoralty, where my great friend ’Ana is running. Succession, for a show with uniformly loathsome characters, is amazingly watchable.

Saturday, 2pm

I’ve just revisited an earlier email. I won’t find out till 6pm, which means I’ve got through Succession too quickly. I’m getting butterflies, which makes me think part of my subconscious is clinging on to forlorn hope. Campaign manager brain has his work cut out: Campbell Barry has upset incumbent Ray Wallace in the Lower Hutt mayoral race, which an optimist who ran as an anti-incumbent might take as encouragement. I refuse to take the bait (he says, having just done so).

Saturday, 3pm

There’s bound to be a lot of talk about turnout, and so there should be. The consistent decline in participation is a crisis for local democracy. But in Wellington, a lacklustre mayoral contest is at least partly to blame. Compared to the theatrics of Auckland, or even the old-fashioned ground game of the Hutt, it was a lifeless affair in the capital.

Saturday, 5.30pm

The results came in over email. I came 10th, the outer and lower reaches of my best guess. Campaign manager brain was right. Oh well. Enjoyed the race. Revelled in the contest. Quixotic endeavour perhaps, but my little foray into the foreground leaves me grateful.

It was a ‘‘money where your mouth is’’ moment.