The Musings of a Town Councillor

Tag: local government

  • Mayor? How to Pick one in 30 Seconds

    It was the first meeting. And it was… a lot. But, the first meeting has to be two meetings in one, the Annual Meeting and the Full Council Meeting, and preparing for it felt odd. Both were scheduled for Monday 12th May, which I quickly learned wasn’t a one-off. All Redruth Town Council committee meetings happen on Mondays, with dates already set right through to April 2026. This was “just how it’s done.” No debate, no alternatives. Mondays work.

    Let the voting begin…

    The Annual Meeting came first. There were 14 points on the agenda, with point 9 split into a–e, and the pack ran to 50 pages. The very first item? Elect the Town Mayor. Which is standard procedure up and down the country, but still, imagine turning up on your very first day of work, sitting around a table with 13 people you don’t really know, and having to pick your leader for the next year. No conversation, no discussion, just straight to the vote. And even if you did know them, how exactly do you assess their “Mayor skills” beyond wearing a gold chain and shaking hands?

    Of course, the role is actually more than that. The Mayor chairs the full council meetings and gets the deciding vote if things are tied — so it’s pretty important. I tried to question the ridiculousness of deciding on the spot with no background, but was quickly shut down: “We need to follow the agenda.”

    A picture of a former Redruth Mayor wearing the chain.
    A picture of a former Redruth Mayor wearing the chain.

    In Redruth, you can only serve as Mayor for two years in a row. The current Mayor was finishing his second year, but we had a Deputy Mayor, and apparently, tradition dictates that the Deputy becomes Mayor. Whether they’re good at the job or not. Unsurprisingly, the Deputy was elected (I abstained — I wasn’t comfortable voting for someone I didn’t know into a role I barely understood). Then the new Mayor nominated their Deputy, and there it was. The leadership of my four-year term seemingly mapped out on my first day: two years with this Mayor, then two years with the Deputy. Done.

    Making my declaration…

    After a speech from the outgoing Mayor, it was time to accept our offices. I’m usually confident with public speaking, being in a ceilidh band means I spend most weekends bossing strangers around at weddings. But, I was very glad the declarations weren’t done in alphabetical order. Being “Allen” would’ve meant going first. And, I’d just seen several people trip over the awkwardly written script. By the time it came to me, I couldn’t resist pointing it out before I read it aloud:

    “I, Ellie Allen, having been elected to the office of Councillor of Redruth Council, declare that I take that office upon myself, and will duly and faithfully fulfil the duties of it according to the best of my judgement and ability.”

    Fifteen minutes in. Forty-nine pages to go.

  • The Day I Ticked My Own Box

    I wasn’t really sure what to expect on polling day, I had no idea what could or would happen. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this yet, but there was already a sense of achievement in what we’d done so far. By standing, we’d ensured every ward in the town was contested. Redruth was one of only three towns in Cornwall where that happened. The previous council had just four elected councillors, with the rest uncontested or co-opted. I’m not sure triggering the election made us popular with some of the other councillors, there was quite a bit of whispering about the cost of it all. But what’s the price of democracy, right?

    And honestly, in the words of The Hunger Games, the odds were in our favour. There were six seats in Redruth South and seven candidates, but Jack and I were the only newbies. Between four of the others, they had over 60 years’ council experience, with the fifth co-opted just over a year ago.

    Polling day…

    I’ve always taken my youngest son to the polling station with me. Now 21, he could actually vote, which made it more exciting. It was great having his company as I nervously walked there for only his second time voting. It felt odd. As I walked in, dressed in my signature orange, I wondered if the people leaving knew my name was on the ballot. And it felt slightly wrong when I put one of the Xs next to my own name.

    A picture of me taken outside the polling station in my signature orange.
    A picture of me taken outside the polling station in my signature orange.

    Then it was just a waiting game. Luckily, polling days are on Thursdays, my pub shift day, so the evening was filled with banter, a bit of ribbing, and plenty of enthusiastic support.

    We planned to go to the count. I was working earlier, and we knew our small election wouldn’t be announced until late. We grabbed our ID and headed to the leisure centre. The day had been disappointing so far. As a mixed-race former single parent, my politics couldn’t be further from the pale blue of Reform, but across Cornwall, seats had been flipping from dark blue and red to light blue. And shortly after we arrived, it was announced that both Redruth South and North would now have Reform councillors at Cornwall Council. Not the best sign for me…

    Watching the count was fascinating. We could see papers being checked, crosses marked next to our names, and the number of crosses we’d got being totalled on a sheet of paper. Sometimes I’d get two, sometimes twelve, it was hard to know what was really going on. We did get told off for laughing too loudly near the counters, oops.

    The results…

    Rosi’s ward was called first. Hers was more hotly contested than ours, eight candidates for six seats, but she got in easily, with two incumbent Labour candidates missing out. I couldn’t help thinking it had more to do with the party label than the people themselves.

    The piece of paper we were shown at the count with our voting totals on. Biscoe 561, Allen 647, Ellenbroek 567, Grasso 447, Morrison 611, Reeve 530 & Thomas 547.
    The piece of paper we were shown at the count with our voting totals on.

    Then it was our turn. We were called over to look at a piece of paper. “I got the most votes,” I blurted out, not even meaning to say it aloud. Jack shot me a look, but I didn’t care. First time running, most votes, Jack second, in a ward that had just voted Reform for Cornwall Council. It really makes you think about why people vote the way they do. People vote Reform, it’s not for me, but that doesn’t automatically make them racist, and we shouldn’t just write them off. We can’t move forward if we do.

    Sara’s ward was called last, with some faffing and recounting. Something about missing ballots, I’m still not sure. Sadly, she’d been pipped at the post. Still, three out of four seats was a win in my book, and we went to celebrate over a pint.

    Little did we know, this had been the easy part.

  • Three Wards, Four Hopefuls, and a Lot of Forms

    So the decision had been made, we were going to stand. Four of us. Our town’s got about 15,500 people, and 14 councillors in total split across three wards: Central – 2 seats, South – 6 seats, North – 6 seats.

    First problem — which wards?

    If you’ve never looked into it, there are a few rules for running for town council. You’ve got to be over 18 (easy), registered to vote (tick), and for the past 12 months meet at least one of these: live in one of the wards (or within 3 miles), own/rent property there, or have your main job there.

    A clip from Cornwall Council interactive map showing the boundary for the three Redruth wards.
    A clip from Cornwall Council interactive map showing the boundary for the three Redruth wards.

    We all qualified in more than one way, so it was basically pick-your-ward. Jack and I live in South, Rosi’s in North, so Sara went for Central. This bit was surprisingly fun, like playing detective, trying to figure out who else would stand and which seats would be most hotly contested. Final tally: 8 in North, 7 in South, 3 in Central. Not bad odds.

    Second problem — the paperwork.

    Oh boy. If you don’t know what to do, it’s a lot. Pages of forms, endless instructions. We tackled them together. Each of us needed two voters from our ward to nominate us. Technically, some of us could have nominated ourselves, but that felt naff. My besties live in my ward so I was sorted.

    Once we’d wrangled all the signatures, we took them to the elections office. The staff were lovely, and just like that, we were in.

    Third problem — canvassing.

    None of us had ever done it before. And there was so much to get across: how to register to vote, postal vote deadlines if you didn’t have photo ID, that in South and North you had six votes but didn’t have to use them all, and that you couldn’t always vote for who you wanted depending on where you lived. Oh, and of course, who we actually were.

    We split it up. Social media people set up pages and posted regularly. We made a joint leaflet so if someone liked Rosi but couldn’t vote for her, maybe they’d go for me, Jack, or Sara instead.

    The leaflet drop was the bit I dreaded, I’m not a dog person, but it was actually lovely. Sunshine, friends helping, and a pint in the pub where it all began after we posted the last one.

    Then… nothing left to do but wait.

  • From Pub Chat to Council Politics…

    Eighteen months before the election, it all began, a handful of us huddled in the Art Room in Redruth, plotting change.. We’d all read the inspirational Flatpack Democracy and wondered… could we do the same here, to our council in our little patch of the world?

    A section of a Google map of Redruth, showing the art room. The council offices literally sit underneath the word Redruth, on Alma Place.
    A section of a Google map of Redruth, showing the art room. The council offices literally sit underneath the word Redruth, on Alma Place.

    We met a few times. Although it was clear people wanted change, it was also clear that no one, including me, was quite ready to throw their hat into the ring. Despite reading the book, no one really understood what it would actually involve, or the level of commitment.

    “It was clear everyone there knew the town, but mostly their own little corner of it, and being so similar, it was hard to see how they truly represented the wider community”

    As one of the two ethnics in the room, who regularly worked and drank in the local pubs, I was concerned that everyone there was a certain “type” of person. I wondered whether their representation would be any more representative than what we already had. There was also a lot of fear about upsetting some of the current incumbents. It is hard… but as they say, you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.

    Then it all fizzled out…

    Fast forward, and the elections were looming. There had been some changes at the council, some of which, from the outside, people questioned. We met again, this time in the pub where I work. The pub locals wondered whether any of the people looking to run for the council were actually residents of Redruth, as they’d never seen them before. Some of the incumbent councillors, who had been invited, spent a surprising amount of time and energy explaining how much work it was to be a councillor, in a rather unencouraging way. And then there was the presence of a member of the council staff, which felt unusual… almost like they were there to keep an eye on things. I’m still not entirely sure what that was about.

    “We were plotting change, while I ducked back and forth to the bar, pulling pints and putting my two pence in — hoping no one would come in and want a drink.”

    By the end of the night, six hands had gone up. It eventually became four, and that’s when things really started to get interesting…