There were no scenes of violence. Television crews and reporters have sent footage and shots of smiling voters in lengthy but jovial queues, under the watchful eyes of our multi-national mentors, all round the world.
So here we are, sitting together as a family on our sunlit patio at the end of a day spent in limbo. Dad is even more morose than he was at the end of last week. He’s scowling at the droplets of condensation trickling down the outside of his beer glass. No-one’s spoken for a good twenty minutes, not even Rosie. She’s reading, rather than trying to talk over me and Mum about her day at school and Alicia’s party next week and Heather’s dreadful new haircut and Rob’s latest, tight-fitting polo shirt. I can’t think of anything to say about anything and Mum’s intent on mending the hem of her grey skirt. We all know what’s going to happen – we just don’t know precisely how it will happen.