THERE is a woman who lies in a graveyard in a small town in the north of England. She is probably turning in her grave right about now.

For it is today that we go to the polls to choose our local councillors - and, lest we forget, our Police and Crime Commissioner.

At the local government elections in 2014, the national turnout was a measly 35.7 per cent. In Swindon it wasn't much better at 40 per cent. This means that roughly a third of the voting population are choosing our politicians for the rest of us. Talk about minority rule.

As for the PCC, fewer than 15 per cent of our countrymen turned out in 2012 to vote. Here are people making important decisions about our police forces with barely a mandate. Worrying stuff indeed,

That restless woman in the graveyard is, of course, Emily Davison, who, 103 years ago in 1913, attended the Epsom Derby - and secured her place in the annals of history as the woman who went to her death in her fight to win women the right to vote.

Even those who did not die so dramatically under the hooves of the King's horse, were vilified, imprisoned, and, if they went on hunger strike, force fed, brutally by the cruellest methods.

Swindon's own Edith New (on whom Helena Bonham Carter's character is partly based in the film, Suffragette) spent two months in Holloway Prison for smashing windows at No 10 in 1908. She was born just around the corner in North Street. She went to jail because society would not let her vote.

Well, they do say you always want what you can't have - and I suspect even now if they told women or people with pierced ears or those who are left-handed that they could not vote, there would be uproar. We would, all of us, surely, take to the streets in protest.

And yet, we don't take to the streets to get to the ballot box. Why?

Many people feel their vote doesn't count. Fair enough - the First Past the Post system is not without its failings. It is certainly something which should be looked at properly by any politician brave enough - presumably those whose seat doesn't depend on being in the 21st century version of a Rotten Borough.

And then there are the people who 'aren't into politics'. Well. Let's think about that for a moment.

As much as some of our head-in-the-clouds, house-flipping, expenses-hoarding elected members may have lost sight of what politics is about, it's quite easy to remind them: Life. It's about life.

Saying you're not interested in politics is akin to saying you don't care if there's a welfare state, and if one day you lose your job, you're quite happy to live in a hedgerow and eat grass for the rest of your life. Or you're not really bothered whether there's an NHS staffed by nurses and doctors who aren't exhausted and disillusioned because you can probably operate on yourself with a couple of paracetamol and a bunch of twigs.

You may as well admit you don't care if there's somewhere to park your car, whether or not the rubbish is collected and you don't couldn't care a fig they charge you in council tax - help yourself, Mr Council Coffers, I'm not interested in politics.

In an average day, you will: drop your child at school, go to work, nip out to the shops, park your car, be able to see where you're going after sundown because the street lamps are working... How do you think these things happen? Because of the men and women we elect to organise those things for us. That's right, you know the word - politics.

So don't let down Emily Davison, Edith New and all those who fought to have an equal say in their society. You have the vote. Use it. Today.

WELCOME back to the glorious Swindon Festival of Literature.

Every spring, it's a breath of fresh air, as authors, poets, youngsters and oldies turn out morning, noon and dusk to absorb whatever organiser Matt Holland has lined up for us.

Swindon so often gets a slating for being a 'cultural vacuum'. Well, all you cynics, check out the lit fest programme for this year - read it and weep.

And of course, this year's certainly going to shine the spotlight on Swindon with the arrival of the persona non grata du jour, Ken Livingstone.

£3.95 you are having a laugh

A COUPLE of weeks ago, I had a good old moan about my journey twixt Stroud and Swindon, which was supposed to last 28 minutes and in fact lasted 74 minutes... or 72 minutes, according to the GWR representative who wrote to me, although she wasn't on the train and wasn't counting away the minutes as they passed... slowly. Very slowly.

Apparently, I wasn't due compensation because my journey was 'only' delayed by 42 minutes (it was 44, I counted, {italic} and{italic} the train manager announced it over the tannoy). {italic} Only {italic} 42 minutes? Are you kidding? Apparently, passengers only deserve a refund when the delay is for an hour or more.

But when the journey takes two and a half times what it was supposed to that doesn't count as worthy of compensation. Amazing.

To be fair, as a token of goodwill, GWT have given me a rail voucher for £3.95. Which is better than a slap round the face with a soggy sarnie from the buffet - but I still think they should refund two and a half times my fare.