Let the musings commence…

I’ve been a bit absent. I had to have surgery before Christmas and have been recovering. There are a lot of things I want and need to write about; the ideas are piling up. But I’m going to start with the cost of democracy: what is your vote worth?

Despite the election only taking place last May, just eight months ago, we are now in a situation where a second councillor has stood down at Redruth Town Council. So what actually happens next? Because I didn’t know; until I became a town councillor.

Unless residents actively intervene, the vacancy will automatically be filled by co-option. Historically, a lot of seats on the council have been filled this way, perhaps because, like me, most people didn’t realise they could trigger a by-election; or how to do it.

To trigger a by-election, ten people on the electoral roll from the ward where the vacancy exists must write to the Monitoring Officer within 14 working days. An email isn’t enough; it has to be a physical letter, either posted or hand-delivered.

If that doesn’t happen, the alternative is co-option, meaning the decision is made by the existing councillors. With a vacant seat, that’s a maximum of 13 people. Some represent that ward, some live in that ward, and some don’t even live in the town or parish at all. What each individual thinks makes a “good councillor” will inevitably vary.

Technically, a decision could be made with as few as five councillors present, a majority of three. That’s an extreme and unlikely scenario; but the fact it’s possible is worth sitting with.

So the question is simple: would you like to vote?

The alternative is a by-election. Cornwall Council charges around £6,000 to run one. Turnout can be low, the last by-election in Redruth Central had an 11% turnout, but that still meant 246 people got to have their say. For me, that alone makes it worth it.

How can we tell people that voting is important, that democracy is worth fighting for, and then pick and choose when we think it’s worth the financial cost? How can we complain about disengagement while quietly opting for the least participatory option?

It’s also very easy for people to blame institutions they feel no connection to and believe they have no control over. When people say “Redruth Town Council are all self-serving”, it matters that we can say: there is something you can do about it. Vote them out. Vote them in.

Surely we want people to take some accountability; not to feel helpless, but to feel that their vote is important and actually matters.

So is the bare minimum really enough?

Legally, the Town Council has to display a Notice of Vacancy in a conspicuous place and on its website, if it has one. In Redruth, that amounted to an A4 sheet in the window of the Civic Centre, on a road with limited footfall, and a notice placed below the fold on the website.

The council also has two social media channels. When I asked whether the vacancy would be shared there, I was told by a councillor that we shouldn’t “cajole” people into applying. An officer said they would need to check with the Clerk, who was on holiday, before posting anything; while confirming that the council had done what was legally required.

In other words: the bare minimum.

At last week’s Town Council meeting, the resignation appeared in the Clerk’s report. It was made clear by some councillors that co-option was in residents’ best interests, that we couldn’t afford a by-election, and that historically some “very good candidates”; by what metric, I’m unclear, had been co-opted. It was also suggested that co-options are democratic.

But surely a local government institution should be a trumpet-blower for democracy; actively championing participation, not quietly managing it away. Not deciding it’s too expensive, or that councillors themselves are better placed to choose representatives than the residents they are meant to serve.

At a time when voter turnout is at an all-time low, trust in institutions is fragile, and populist parties are growing in popularity; irrespective of whether we agree with the outcome, and irrespective of whether the result would be the same as a co-option, the process matters.

I’ve published the vacancy and the route by which a by-election can be triggered, and I’ll continue to do so. I genuinely don’t understand how anything other than actively encouraging people to vote can be acceptable.

But once again, that choice currently sits with people who appear to have very little interest in widening representation.

When I signed up to be a Town Councillor, I didn’t really know what to expect. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure I’d get in; with seven of us standing for six seats in my ward, I was hopeful, but it’s hard to know how these things will go when you’ve never done anything like it before.

I know a lot of people in town, but not all of them live in my ward or are registered to vote. There wasn’t much clear information about what being a councillor actually involves. There were plenty of knowing looks and sharp intakes of breath about “the time commitment,” and yes, there are a lot of meetings.

Six months on (which has both flown by and felt like an eternity), my main takeaway is that the role, and how people define it, varies hugely from person to person. It depends on what you care about, what you focus on, and who you feel you’re serving.

If you search online, you’ll find that the time commitment for a Town Councillor ranges from 2 to 15+ hours a week. That sounds huge, and it is, but interestingly, it’s about the same as what’s expected from a Non-Executive Director (NED). There are a lot of unpaid NED roles in the arts and charity sectors, which tend to attract people because of the prestige or passion they carry. And yet, being a Town Councillor, where you’re shaping the place you live, doesn’t seem to have the same kudos.

Maybe that’s because there’s no formal selection process. As long as you’re over 18 and live or work in the area, you can stand. There’s no grilling by a board or skill-based recruitment; just an election (and sometimes not even that). Councils are generally looking for anyone, not necessarily someone with a specific skill set, which I guess could make it sound a bit desperate.

And people wonder: what do councillors actually do? What decisions do they make? Can you really make a difference, especially when you’re one of 14?

How Much Time It Takes

For me, it’s quite a lot. I opted to sit on all committees except Planning; so Communities, Asset Management, Finance, and Staffing, which keeps me busy. Meeting times vary, but under our new standing orders (soon to be ratified), no meeting should last more than two hours.

What’s struck me is how much time is spent discussing operational issues rather than strategic direction, and how often conversations circle back to what happened 5, 10, or 15 years ago, rather than setting a vision for the future.

I’ve also joined working groups; the Emergency Plan, Christmas Lights, and Climate Action Plan; where again, there’s sometimes a blur between what councillors should do strategically and what’s best left to staff or community partners.

The expectation to keep almost every Monday night free for council business can be tricky. That was the day set years ago, and there seems little appetite to revisit. There are also daytime meetings, which makes participation hard for anyone working full-time. I feel like things might be changing slightly. But an email on Monday announcing meetings on Thursday and Friday isn’t particularly flexible.

And then there’s the paperwork; agendas are published on Wednesdays, five days before meetings. The last one was 77 pages long, and was followed by two addendums (one the Friday before, another on the day!).

I also spend quite a lot of time maintaining my social media and this blog, which I actually find really helpful.

What Needs to Change

I genuinely believe most of these issues are solvable. At one meeting, a long-serving councillor commented that “younger people just don’t want to sit on Town Councils.” But rather than accepting that, shouldn’t we ask why?

If you’ve been in post for years, maybe there’s little incentive to open the door to competition. Town Councils have long been dominated by a particular demographic; often older, retired people who have the time to read 77-page agendas and attend daytime meetings. Staff, understandably, prefer to work standard hours. But if the structure doesn’t work for the community it’s meant to represent, then it needs to be rethought.

Who is actually responsible for making local democracy accessible, for encouraging people from all walks of life to stand? Theoretically, that’s what Town Councils are for. But if councillors and staff design systems that only work for people like them, we’re not really practising democracy at all.

For me

For me personally, the role has definitely been challenging. My background is in marketing, which has been useful for helping me communicate what the council does and engage more people in local issues.

Recently I’ve even learned some coding, creating a system to make meeting recordings more accessible; something I’d never done before.

The “politics of politics” isn’t my favourite part; it can feel bureaucratic, archaic, and painfully slow. But I do believe that if a group of like-minded, forward-thinking people came together with a shared vision for the town’s future, the impact could be huge.

Looking Ahead – Who’s Standing?

There are still 3.5 years until the next election, and I’d love to see more people stand in Redruth’s wards.

More broadly, I think hyper-local politics could help bridge some of the polarisation we’ve seen in recent years. It’s about taking ownership; of our towns, our communities, and our shared future.

If you’ve ever thought about standing, whether in Redruth or elsewhere, please do get in touch. I’ve only got six months of experience, but I’m happy to chat and share what I’ve learned so far.

It’s been six months now since we were sworn in as Redruth Town Councillors. When I think back, I have to laugh — two years ago, one Friday night before my shift at The Red Lion, I was sitting in The Art Room with a small group talking about the Town Council and “Flat Pack Democracy.”

I’ll be honest, I didn’t really understand what we were doing there or why people had such issues with the council at the time. I remember wondering how anyone could feel confident they’d do a better job without really understanding what the job was. I questioned the time commitment (no one seemed entirely sure), and although there was enthusiasm for “something different,” no one really wanted to stand for election.

Fast forward to today, and I couldn’t hold a more opposite view if I tried.

The myths of local government

Part of the problem, I think, is the “urban legends” surrounding local government, that it’s boring, impenetrable, and best left to other people. I used to believe some of that. But I’ve come to realise something quite different: whether it’s your parish, regional, or national government — they don’t really want you to pay attention.

Because if you did, you might not agree with what they’re doing, and that would make things… awkward.

Standing Orders and standing my ground

That thought came sharply into focus at this week’s double meeting Monday, three hours, two agendas, and one existential crisis later.

The evening kicked off with our third meeting to discuss the Town Council’s Standing Orders. These were handed to us at our very first meeting, a dense document written in the most unfriendly, verbose, and confusing language imaginable. One of our group’s early ambitions was to rewrite it in plain English, so that if a member of the public wanted to read it, they might actually understand what it said.

Simple idea, right? Not so fast. It turns out parts of the Standing Orders are legally required to be copied word-for-word from statute. So, if you try to rewrite the rest in normal language, you end up with long stretches of legalese breaking up your efforts like stubborn weeds in a tidy lawn.

At a previous meeting, I’d thrown the proverbial cat among the pigeons (technically I’d submitted it as a motion, though the process took a slightly unusual route to discussion). Inspired by the approach in Frome, I’d proposed a new section to clarify what decisions must be made by Full Council.

I couldn’t make that particular meeting, but I later heard the rumour mill: apparently, I was either drunk or stupid to suggest such a thing, and that we had “more important things to be doing.” (What those were remains a mystery.)

So, after all that, the discussion rolled over to this week’s meeting for me to explain myself. To say I wasn’t looking forward to it would be an understatement.

The case for open decision-making

My reasoning was simple enough: the big decisions, restructuring the council, setting budgets, cancelling festivals (not for emergency reasons), anything that shapes the town’s direction, should be debated and decided in Full Council, in public, where people can see and understand what’s happening.

Before we joined, the council had gone through a full restructure: new staff hired, others made redundant, and an overall 25% increase in the annual payroll. That’s significant, and yet all of it was discussed behind closed doors in Part II (private session).

I wasn’t a councillor then, but none of the reasoning is documented publicly, so it’s impossible to know how or why those decisions were made. That doesn’t sit well with me.

Some councillors argue that staffing discussions must be private to protect employees, and that’s true in part. but when such decisions reshape the council entirely, there should at least be some attempt to explain the rationale to the public whose money funds it all.

And as for the idea that “we were elected to represent people”, well, let’s keep a sense of proportion. Those major decisions were made by the previous council, when only four members were actually voted in and the rest were either co-opted or uncontested. That’s hardly a resounding mandate.

A small-town rallying cry

So here’s my rallying cry: are you happy to let people, myself included, make decisions about your town and your money, often without you noticing?

We need more eyes, more voices, and more participation. Even the best-intentioned 14 councillors in the world can’t do it alone.

You don’t have to come to every meeting (frankly, I wouldn’t recommend it), but maybe come to one. Read the minutes. Send an email. Ask a question. You’d be amazed how much power those small acts hold.

I’ll keep asking the awkward questions and sharing what I can; but democracy’s a team sport.

We’re in this together, right?

I’m not sure if I’ve covered this in the blog yet, but it feels like the right time to do so.The question I keep being asked;sometimes directly, sometimes through whispers, is:

“Why are you writing this blog?”

There are lots of reasons, though perhaps not the ones some people might think.

Keeping Sane and Speaking Honestly

First and foremost, writing helps keep me sane.

I was never really “a writer.” I’ve never kept a journal or a blog before. But for some reason, maybe since the arrival of ChatGPT, I’ve found writing surprisingly easy and deeply therapeutic.

And no, this isn’t being written by a computer. ChatGPT just helps me tidy things up and occasionally removes a bit of waffle (and there’s plenty of that!).

What this space gives me is freedom: the freedom to reflect on what it’s really like to be a Town Councillor without worrying about grammar, spelling, or politics.

The Bigger Picture

In the May 2025 town and parish council elections, 7,802 seats, almost two-thirds, were filled without a vote because there weren’t enough candidates.
Even after the elections, 21.5% of seats remained vacant, and 31 councils couldn’t even meet because they didn’t have enough members to legally make decisions.

The average age of a councillor in 2022 was 60 years old. Nearly half (42%) were aged 65 or over, and a significant number had been serving for 10, 15, or even 25 years.

Meanwhile, only 19% of the UK population is over 65. That tells you how off-balance local representation really is.

We need younger people, fresh faces, and more diverse voices on parish and town councils. We need contested wards; real choice, not automatic co-option because there are six spaces and seven names. That’s not democracy; that’s default.

Why I Stood

My faith in both national and international politics has been wearing thin. But I believe local government, parish and town councils, still has the potential to empower people, to give communities a sense of control over where they live and what happens there.

If people feel listened to, even when they don’t agree with every decision, they’re more likely to engage and to trust the process. And that’s what I stood for: openness, honesty, and genuine conversation.

That’s also why I write this blog, not just for our parishioners (though I know some of you do read it!), but for anyone curious about what really happens behind those council doors.

The Reality So Far

I do want this blog to encourage people to stand for their local council.
But I also want to be honest, it hasn’t been easy.

The last five months have been anything but plain sailing. There have been moments of real pride and achievement, but also some low points. At times, I’ve felt ganged up on and, yes, demonised.

Still, the aim has always been to give an authentic account, the highs and the lows, of what it’s like to be a councillor in 2025.

To Be Clear – What this Blog is (and isn’t) About

Let me tackle a misconception head-on:

• This blog is not written to call out or criticise individuals.
• It’s not about people.
• It’s about systems, processes, and procedures, the way things are done within the framework of local government.

For those who’ve been part of that system for decades, it can be uncomfortable when someone new starts asking questions. It might feel personal. But it isn’t.

I stood on a platform of public engagement, transparency, and communication, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.

The Nolan Principles

This blog, in many ways, helps me live up to the Nolan Principles of Public Life, the ethical standards expected of anyone in public office.

Two, in particular, feel especially relevant:

Accountability

Holders of public office are accountable to the public for their decisions and actions and must submit themselves to the scrutiny necessary to ensure this.

Openness

Holders of public office should act and take decisions in an open and transparent manner. Information should not be withheld from the public unless there are clear and lawful reasons for so doing.

That’s why I write this blog.
It’s about accountability.
It’s about openness.
And it’s about ensuring that local government remains connected to the people it’s meant to serve.

Next Steps

I take my responsibility seriously, and I’ve arranged to meet with my local MP to talk about my experience so far as a Town Councillor. I’ll let you know how that goes.

Until then, thank you for reading, for engaging, and for caring. Because whatever else this blog may be, it’s written with one purpose: to keep the door open.

I’m tired. I’m trying really hard.

We’ve managed to successfully push through two motions uncontested. The Christmas lights are happening, the town will have a Christmas tree, and that’s a genuinely positive step forward. My Facebook page has great reach, and in the main, the comments and questions are positive or, when critical, perfectly reasonable and open to discussion.

In the last 28 days, posts have reached over 38,000 people, with more than 3,000 content interactions. That’s not vanity metrics, that’s engagement. Real residents, real conversations, real curiosity about what happens in their town.

When I stood for election, I did so on a platform of transparency, community engagement, and communication. At the time, that wasn’t universally welcomed. Some councillors quickly put out messages telling residents that the Council was already “transparent”, because the minutes were published online and meetings were open to the public.

But let’s be honest: minutes are long, formal, and rarely tell you much about what actually went on. They’re not summaries, and unless you’ve got a free evening to trawl through pages of them, it’s hard to know what decisions were made or what they mean for the community.

I’ve done that trawling. Months of it. And even then, I still couldn’t find answers to some basic questions. So I asked. I asked as both a councillor and a resident, because I pay council tax too, and I want to understand where it goes.

I’ve been told many times that scrutiny is “welcome” at the Council. But it turns out, not all scrutiny is equally welcome.

Asking questions

I’ve asked about the budget, and about the strategic objectives, six-year objectives that cover not only my full term, but half of the next one too. They were agreed in draft form, discussed behind closed doors, and at the time had little public consultation beyond a few stakeholder sessions and postcards left in the library.

When I asked about revisiting these objectives, I was told at first that they could be, “if the council wanted to.” In other words, probably not. Then later, I was told that “it had always been the understanding that they would be revisited.” The trouble is, I can’t find any record of that understanding, because the meetings where it was decided weren’t public.

I’ve raised questions about the budget, both in meetings and by email, simply to clarify things. The result? A wave of pushback: that my questions were “having an adverse effect on staff,” that I was “wasting time,” that I was “micro-managing.”

And my favourite, that while it’s “healthy to ask questions,” mine were “awkward” or “difficult.”

Maybe they were. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?

Rise Up Redruth

Alongside my council work, I’ve started Rise Up Redruth, a community initiative to connect residents who want to help make things happen locally. It’s not a council project, just people who love their town and want to get involved. Over 100 people have signed up so far.

I’ve shared it on my councillor Facebook page because that’s where residents follow me. But this has sparked a string of formal emails questioning whether what I’m doing could “damage the reputation of the Town Council,” whether I have insurance, whether I’m GDPR compliant, and how people would know this wasn’t an official council scheme.

To be clear: I’ve changed the name of my page, pinned a post stating that it’s not an official council page, updated the about section, and registered with the ICO.

And yet, it hasn’t stopped the emails.

What makes it harder to swallow is that several other councillors have Facebook pages too. Many openly reference their role, none carry disclaimers, and one even uses the Town Council logo and ward name without identifying who runs the page. During the last election, it was used for campaigning.

So, if I’m being held to one standard and others aren’t, what does that say about fairness and consistency?

The human side

I became a councillor because I love this town and I know a lot of people feel the same. I wanted to help bridge the gap between residents and the council, to make it easier for people to know what’s happening and to have a voice.

Instead, I’ve found myself on the receiving end of endless scrutiny, not for doing something wrong, but for doing something different. For trying. For caring enough to ask questions and communicate openly.

I’m tired of it, but I’m not giving up.

When I stood for election, I made promises, and I intend to keep them. If that makes me “awkward,” so be it.

A final thought

Some people may not like me writing about these experiences, and that’s fine. But honesty shouldn’t be controversial. It’s a shame that speaking openly can feel risky, and that raising questions can be seen as a threat. That shouldn’t be the case in local government, or anywhere.

So if anyone has a problem with me talking about these things, maybe the real question to ask is:

If you truly believe what you’re doing is right, why be afraid of people knowing about it?

Town Council meetings are made up of two parts. Part I is open to the public: anyone can attend, listen, take notes, record, and even speak if they’d like to.

Then comes Part II, when everyone is asked to leave. There’s even a ritual announcement that always makes me feel like I’ve joined some sort of secret society:

“That in accordance with the Public Bodies (Admission to Meetings) Act 1960, the public and press be excluded from the meeting during the consideration of agenda item(s) [insert item number(s)] on the grounds that publicity would be prejudicial to the public interest by reason of the confidential nature of the business to be transacted.”

But what does that actually mean? And who gets to decide what’s “prejudicial to the public interest”? If you don’t yet know what’s going to be discussed, how can you agree (or disagree) that it should be hidden?

Previous Part II

Looking back through Redruth Town Council’s Part II agendas, both from my time and earlier, I’ve seen items such as:

• The new staff handbook
• The council budget & precept
• Organisational review update

They’re so vague it’s impossible to know what was really discussed. And honestly, shouldn’t the budget and precept, literally how taxpayers’ money is spent, be debated in the open? Six months ago, as a resident, I wasn’t trusted with this information. Now, having taken the oath as a councillor, I suddenly have the right to know. That feels odd.

The other strange thing about Part II is the lack of records. You can’t take notes, and only the outcomes of votes are minuted, not the conversations or the detail of motions. When I submit a motion in advance, I’m required to include quite a lot of information. Yet those standards don’t seem to apply once we step into Part II. And if they do, that information doesn’t seem to be made public.

Whole staff reports, for example, are hidden. Is that always necessary? Or could generalised information be shared publicly, with only private or personal details contained in a separate confidential document?

It makes scrutiny difficult. And I can see why, to the public, it feels more like information is being hidden than safeguarded.

Redruth Civic Centre vs The Houses of Parliament

It’s also worth putting this in perspective. Everything voted on in the House of Commons is debated in public. The last closed session was in 2001, and that was an accident, during a debate on terrorism. So is there really anything at Redruth Town Council more secret or sensitive than matters of national security?

Yes, some details should stay private: personal names, legal matters, salaries, business rents. But beyond that, the need for Part II should surely be rare. With no overarching regulator for town and parish councils, no one is really watching how often it’s used.

And that raises the bigger question: what should local government be showing more openly? How money is being spent? Who is accountable? What the council’s focus and ambitions are for the town?

I’d love to know what you think. What kinds of debates would make you come along to a council meeting, sit in Part I, and take an interest?

I never thought of myself as a politician, but apparently the job description says otherwise.

Since being elected as a Town Councillor, I’ve somehow become responsible for everything that’s ever gone wrong in Redruth. Every bad decision ever made by “the council” (or at least according to urban legend) now seems to have my name on it.

Politician with a big “P”

I didn’t vote for our current MP, or his predecessor, but I follow them on Facebook. Party politics often feels oxymoronic to me, but I don’t think being an MP is an easy job. At least it’s paid! I see Perran Moon updating people regularly about what he’s doing. Realistically, very few people will agree with every decision he makes, and his party, rightly or wrongly, is deeply unpopular. But maybe that’s true of any party in government, there will always be tough calls, whether that’s raising taxes or making cuts. And of course, everyone believes they shouldn’t be the ones to feel the impact.

What I do think is that, regardless of the backlash, Mr Moon seems fairly open about what he’s doing, how he’s voted, and willing to meet people and hear their stories. I still wouldn’t vote for him or his party, but I do think it’s worth acknowledging that his job isn’t easy, and he is trying.

Why am I writing about this? No, I’m not setting up the Perran Moon Appreciation Society.

But since becoming a councillor myself, I’ve felt the weight of it, and I just wish people were kinder, or at least understood what it takes to stick your head above the parapet. My recent online dressing-down came after I shared details with residents about how to trigger a by-election. Someone felt it was a waste of money, since turnout was only 11%. I don’t agree, and that’s fine, there isn’t really a right or wrong on that point. What stung was having my motivations questioned: being accused of “playing politics” or posting on social media for self-validation. It felt unnecessary. And it wasn’t the first unkind comment.

Be Kind…

So I suppose what I’m saying is this: we’re never all going to agree on everything, and that’s okay. People will make mistakes, and a politician should absolutely be challenged when they do. But we should also applaud when they get it right. And above all, we should try to be kind. It doesn’t cost anything.