If the remaining Election Commission members all come to their senses and agree to quit, and if Thaksin Shinawatra honours his vow of temporary exile, purportedly until political reforms are completed, please read the following fictional piece in a spirit of fun. But if exactly the opposite happens, then please don't think me mad, because the odds of any of this coming true are better than for an entire nation mistaking fever-cooling gel sheets as an invading alien species.

7.30am: Where's that damned gun? I remember putting it in the bottom drawer when I returned home on the day of the last election. Or did I? At 52, your memory constantly plays tricks with you. And after all, that was the year's fourth general election in Thailand.

I prowled around my home and after 20 minutes and a dozen curses, found it under the bullet-proof vest in the closet. Wanted to kick myself, but what a relief. You can't leave home without one, especially not on election day.

9am: I clicked on the Net radio and switched back and forth between clandestine and government channels. They were running their ballot-day routines. The former was playing the 120th version of "Square Face", which has become a religious song for many of us over the years. The latter was broadcasting a speech from the nation's "Beloved Leader". Oh, sorry, "Caretaker Beloved Leader", to be exact. It was the same old message that we've been hearing since April 2006: "Unity and harmony are all I want. It's my responsibility to be here and make sure the nation achieves them."

10am: I loaded the pistol and donned my bullet-proof vest. Sporadic gunshots were already echoing around the neighbourhood. It started earlier than last time, and my heart sank a bit. The relatively low death toll of 700 in that election had given us some hope; it marked the first time the number was lower than body counts during the Songkran road carnage, and even the United Nations cautiously congratulated Thailand for that. I checked my life insurance policy and left home, almost oblivious to the faint sounds of sirens somewhere in the city.

10.15am: A blood-soaked teenager was lying on his back at the bus stop, still murmuring, "Get out!" But no one paid any attention. I ignored a brawl between two kids aged maybe six to eight, one of them bleeding from her nose but still shouting, "We want you back!"

11am: It was taking too long. Not unusual for election day, though. We always envied "the other side", those who could ride taxis and motorcycle taxis for free simply by showing their party-membership cards. I looked around, analysed the situation and decided to walk. It was a big gamble - many of us had lost limbs to booby traps walking to polling stations - but what the hell. We had taken the battle this far.

1pm: The polling booth was surrounded by burning effigies, as usual. As bombs exploded somewhere nearby, I took out my pen and did what I'd done a hundred times over the past decade - made a cross in the "no vote" box on the ballot.

1.15pm: Job done. Since there was time to spare, I headed to the People's Alliance for Democracy bastion. It's located next to government headquarters, a symbolic thorn in the Beloved Leader's side. It's a no-fire zone and our sanctuary.

2pm: I passed two gun-toting guards and entered my comfort zone. My comrades were all busy like normal: songwriters were rehearsing their new inventions; traditional Chinese dancers were rehearsing; and T-shirt-makers were working on new designs. It was nice to be here in my second home.

4pm: They began broadcasting vote counts on television, but nobody cared. Past elections all ended the same way - in turmoil. There would be some debate about whether which votes counted and which ones didn't, or whether obscene statements or caricatures drawn by us in protest on the ballots should nullify our vote.

There would be a prolonged tussle in the courts, some by-elections, some more snap elections. People would get shot. Buildings would be burned. Militants (called "mobs" in the old days) would take to the streets. And Election Commission head Vasana Puemlarp would tell reporters: "What are you, deaf? I won't quit."

6pm: The first thing I did after arriving home was automatically turn on the Net TV. Just a habit more than anything else. They were broadcasting a post-election speech, as usual. I caught the familiar "national harmony" line as I placed my gun in the bottom drawer.

 Tulsathit Taptim