I hate deciding. It’s actually a disease called decidophobia, although I’m not seeking treatment just yet. I may be a hopeless case but I embrace my affliction as a source of personal power. So in this coming federal election I’m driving those little pollster pebble counters called psephologists into a spin. Which party or pollie is the best fit for me, they’d love to know.

I’m not telling: I prevaricate over which side of the keyboard the computer mouse lives. While others are choosing dessert I dither over dinner.Steak or risotto? I love cars’ radio search buttons because I never need decide anything as they scrolls up and down the dial seeking stations, and driving other passengers nuts.
I swing more than Tarzan.

At elections, we swinging voters um and ah as we’re tempted with money-laden tid-bits. A better road system or less taxes? Would Sir/Madam like better education or a new hospital system perhaps? Well, um, maybe. We parry, pettifog, shuck and shuffle like a ballroom dancer on ice, skating around issues.

And on a planet where predictability is paramount, bucking trends is dangerous and may destabilise economies based on certainty, planning and predictability.

This is the new age of individualism, or revenge of the ditherer, and is rippling over this planet like melting icebergs.

At elections it seems my vote now counts more than yours. If everyone votes the same, then the overall strength of that individual vote is diluted because it makes little difference. So the true power of a vote lies in its difference, not in its sameness. When one voter swings it signals a shift in temperament and alters the axis of alignment.

I’m carefully cavilling, but neither the green Dr Brown, Mr Abbot from the monatery or Ms Pointy Pinocchio’s nose, growing longer daily, capture my imagination.

In pure polling terms, it’s we swinging voters who have really taken the lead. For once, we are in front.

I am the most important person in this election with the day of the great undeciders looming fast. I am living in the land of Id in a new, narcissistic age of “They love me, they love me not” as I pluck quills from all these political birds. And I deliberately dangle my own vote like a dazzling Dubai diamond in front of them as they shout: “Choose me, choose me!”

And I might, if I can see real health care improvements, a sustainable environment with better heritage protections, proper population policies and sound economic management.

Then again, I might not. When I’m inside that me-on-me, cardboard corral, HB-pencil-on-a-string, inner world of the voting booth, I’ll decide then.

No wonder pollies are worried.