As usual, the residents of Deansgrange gathered just as the last rays of sunlight departed the Earth.
"Who's that lot?" asked one of them, nodding at the group of men with placards, stalking up and down outside the gates.
"Union pickets," sniffed Mr Grimes. "And you can't pass pickets."
"Does this mean we won't be voting on election day?" asked a sepulchral voice. "Elections are the only time I ever get out."
"Well, I for one shall be jolly pleased if that's the case," declared Myrtle Entwhistle emphatically. "I've voted in every election since I died, and it's always, always been for those beastly Shinners, and all their tommy-rot. It's just not fair."
"I'm proud to vote for Sinn Féin, personated or not," said Mr McBride.
"Let me tell you, I went down on the Leinster in 1918," said Myrtle's sister, Pru. "It was fearfully wet and cold, and if I hadn't been drowned, I'd have simply caught my death. It really is a bit thick all these decades later to find yourself voting for horrid pro-Germans. If that ever happened to poor mummy, I think she'd die."
"A little late for that," sniffed Mr McBride. "Still, you can tell her yourself. Here she is now."
A cobweb-festooned crone of vast antiquity hobbled into their midst. She raised a finger at the picket, circling in the gloaming.
"Larkin's scoundrels again, I see. I trust someone has informed the DMP."
"Actually, mummy, if those beastly Larkinites stay there, maybe those even beastlier Sinn Féin types won't be able to use our votes in the next general election."
"Janey, it's not just Sinn Féin," rumbled Mr Grimes. "I never voted when I was alive, but begod, the moment I was dead, you couldn't stop me."
"Fortunately, I died before women's suffrage, so even the most devious Fenian has been unable to personate my vote," said old Mrs Entwhistle. "I take it that that nice Mr Carson is no longer standing? Ah, I feared not. So if it's not that infernal Home Rule nonsense, what precisely is at issue in this general election?"
"Well," said Mr Grimes, "it's about . . . " and he paused for thought.
"Well, mummy," chimed in Prudence, removing a bit of seaweed from her ear. "The main issue is . . . " She fell silent, and her sister, Myrtle, stepped in. "The main issue is . . . But I'm sure Mr McBride would put it better than I would. Mr McBride?"
But Mr McBride simply opened and closed his mouth.
"Well, I just hope those Larkinite ruffians stay there," said Mrs Entwhistle firmly, gesturing towards the picket "We can't have you all using the ballot when you haven't a clue what you're voting for."
Fortunately, the same doesn't apply to the living.