MAYBE a Martian, hovering overhead in his spaceship, might have wondered who would win the election here.

To those of us with our feet firmly on Planet Earth, the outcome was never in doubt.

But it was still a fascinating night down at the count, hanging out with all the parties’ supporters in front of the giant TV screen, their faces registering glee (Tories) or gloom (everyone else) as the national drama unfolded.

The losers accepted defeat with good grace and John Glen wisely delivered a victory speech that lacked any hint of triumphalism. All very civilised. Very Salisbury.

With time to kill between casting my vote and heading off to the City Hall, I’d discovered another source of entertainment: #DogsAtPollingStations on Twitter.

Made me wish I’d taken Poppy with me when I cast my vote at the church hall. She could have been a media sensation!

Anyway, setting aside that nonsense, I was driving home at 4am and pulled up at the Harnham gyratory, where I was entranced by a sudden burst of birdsong in the darkness.

I imagine that living in the artificial daylight created by our street lamps must disrupt our wild creatures’ circadian rhythms.

If so, it at least gives us a little miracle that inspired Paul McCartney to write one of his own loveliest songs.

Years ago I worked on a national paper in London, finishing in the early hours.

I’ll never forget the times I’d be sitting in my car at that roundabout with the windows open to keep me awake and I’d be spellbound by a blackbird singing in the dead of night.

To me, there’s no more beautiful sound in the world.

There were more warblings next morning - perhaps a little less melodious - on the balcony of the White Hart.

Tradition demands that the victorious candidate delight his massed followers with a rendition of that incomprehensible turnip-hoer’s ditty, The Vly Be on the Turmut.

I can’t think how I’ve managed to live in Salisbury for 23 years without witnessing this spectacle before.

So I was determined to catch it this time, even though it meant grabbing just four hours’ sleep.

Mr Glen, who must have been knackered too, duly appeared, looking decidedly out of his comfort zone, but ably aided by farmer Richard Crook and the children of the Cathedral School, gave it his best shot.

And I’m so glad I made the effort, because there was one unforgettable moment of joy when a Wiltshire Council bin lorry pulled up just below, bearing the slogan ‘Thank you for recycling’.

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