Something stinks in West Belfast and Gerry Adams's constituents want to know what he will do about it.
The issue isn't police reform, British army brutality or even punishment beatings. The residents of a development on Upper Dunmurry Lane are complaining about "the stables out the back".
The noises and smells from an equestrian centre have been affecting their quality of life and they aren't happy with the politicians they have elected.
"We've had years of it and nobody has come, no councillors have done anything about it," one woman tells her MP, who says he will look into it.
Making a pointed reference to the local councillor accompanying Mr Adams, she insists: "The stench of it has devalued our houses and nobody has lifted a finger about it."
Mr Adams promises he will "pick it up". On the way out a neighbour calls after him, "Tell Collette (Mrs Adams) to feed you properly, you're wasting away."
This incident is the closest the Sinn Fein president comes to getting a hard time. When it comes to canvassing, Mr Adams is in a class of his own.
As he approaches one door, a child of three or four has her hand raised in a greeting. Mr Adams walks past, drops his hand and slaps it into hers in a perfect "high" - or in this case - "low five".
The simple gesture illustrates the confidence that characterises the canvass. Without being complacent, Mr Adams knows his role is more to bolster morale and inspect the troops. "These people are as republican as I am," he says. That he seems to know half of West Belfast doesn't hurt either.
The banter on the doors comes thick and fast. "Take yourself off, you're not getting my vote," says one man, smiling. Another asks Mr Adams, accompanied by local candidate Mr Paul Butleir, "So, vote for yourself and not this guy, is that right?"
Occasionally, the familiarity is misplaced. When one young woman opens her front door, Mr Adams exclaims "Ach, I know you, how do I know you?" The woman's expression turns to bewilderment. "Actually I don't know you," he confirms, pausing for a second before making sure she'll be out to vote on Thursday.
Ten or so workers have thoroughly canvassed the area already but when one concerned couple ask how the election is going, Mr Adams is unenthusiastic. "All right. It's just a matter of getting it cranked up," he says.
At only one door, to which he is guided by workers smelling an "undecided", is he challenged. In a slightly nervous voice - whether it is from talking to a leading politician or from the whiff of sulphur Sinn Fein hasn't quite got rid of is unclear - a woman tells Mr Adams she feels people in the area are becoming too dependent on Sinn Fein.
Mr Adams leans on the door frame, settling in for a chat, "I don't care if you vote for me, this is something I am interested in," he says.
The conversation moves to punishment attacks, "joyriders" and policing. "I have no respect for the police, it needs reform, but why is it taking so long?" the increasingly confident woman asks.
After 15 minutes, they part company. "You might get my vote yet," she calls after him.
A couple of days later and the Adams cavalcade passes through Andersonstown. Here about 10 adults and as many teenagers and children are posting leaflets through doors. One child asks her mother, "Can I canvass our house?" Within five minutes of arriving there are 30 children around Mr Adams, all demanding autographs. "Christ, I'm surrounded by wee kids," says a 16-year-old helper, unaware of any irony.
Here again Mr Adams is less interested in canvassing than in touching base with the many families he knows in the area.
As he comes to one door the woman inside calls out, "Mum, come here, it's your boyfriend." Mrs Teresa Kane descends slowly down to the door on a stairlift. "I've been awful poorly," she says, barely able to get off the seat, "but I'll still be down to vote." Mrs Kane hugs Mr Adams so tightly her daughter says, "Take it easy, Mum, you're strangling him."
In another house, Mrs Eileen McDonnell, mother of deceased hunger striker Joe McDonnell, jokes "We're voting for Mr Paisley."
The clamour for autographs continues and the pack is never satisfied. One particularly insistent boy asks for his Celtic top to be signed, but Mr Adams refuses.
The boy could teach unionists a thing or two about negotiating with Sinn Fein. After 30 minutes and three more refusals, he asks again. "OK, give it here," says Mr Adams.