And suddenly, just like that, it all changes.

You're checking in; and going through security; and filing like cattle into a plane where you'll actually have to sit next to someone.

Yesterday you had a row to yourself.

They will lie to you; tell you not to use your phone; that it will mess with the navigation system or blow us all up.

Yesterday you were making calls during take off and no one batted an eyelid.

They will not give you bottles of wine to pour for yourself. They will not bring trays of beer upon request.

They will not serve canapés of prosciutto and melon or smoked salmon and cream cheese.

They will not speak with a foreign accent.

You will no longer feel the rush of adrenalin that hits when someone powerful enters the room and it's game on.

Instead, you will be surrounded by infants and businessmen and bogans and holidaymakers and grandparents.

And and and.

These people were interesting in the context of the campaign, when for a moment they were caught up in the maelstrom.

But today, now, you have nothing for contempt for them. For the lives they lead so far from the corridors of power.

You no longer feel like a rock star, but little and, worse, disempowered.

You already wish you were back on the front line, where it's happening, where the nation is being willed into being by this unholy alliance of politicians and media.

You will sleep in tomorrow, and that will be good, but then you will feel a profound sense of emptiness.

Everything will have become an image again, a thousand miles away on a television screen.

ElectionTracker, 15 November 2007