After ten minutes of practice, the director mowed down the protests of the dancing grandmas and ushered Sharon to the meeting room where the media representatives were waiting. Sharon delivered a short speech about the need for the government to be frugal while rolling out social welfare programmes, and emphasised that the citizens must not be allowed to develop a crutch mentality. The reporters looked bored. Sharon felt sorry she wasn’t able to reveal some of the exciting initiatives the government had lined up, but the next election was two years down the road and it was not yet time to fire up the voters’ enthusiasm.

The director then led Sharon to the activity room where the Sunflower residents were seated in tidy rows of wheelchairs awaiting her arrival. Sharon took her time to shake their hands one by one, stuffing auspicious red packets, each containing a $10 bill, into their palms as she did so. One of the elderly, a hulking man sporting multiple faded tattoos on his arms, was apparently having a bad cold. He emitted a thunderous sneeze as she neared, wiped mucous off his nose with his right palm, wiped that palm on his pyjama bottoms and then extended the hand to Sharon when she came to him.

Sharon froze. Every cell in her body was recoiling in disgust. Thinking quickly, she pretended not to see the man’s extended hand and moved to pat him on his shoulder instead. The man gave her a toothless grin. Sharon next pinched the red packet by the edge and gingerly offered it to him. It was at that point that her luck ran out. The grateful recipient grabbed her hand with both palms and shook it warmly, leaving a wet smear behind.

Sharon wanted to scream. But her intuition as a politician told her that even the act of extracting a sheet of tissue paper to wipe away the mucous might be wrongly interpreted by the reporters present. She could come across squeamish or insensitive. Luckily for Sharon, the director saw what had happened and was quick to offer a box of tissues.

The residents had lined up an abbreviated string of musical performances for their esteemed parliamentarian. Two solo singers heartily belted out “The Wandering Songstress” and “Night Jasmine” in croaking voices before the trio of dancing grandmas took over the mike to perform the final number. Grandma Beebee slid over to Sharon, who was seated at the front row, and stealthily handed her the maracas.

“Don’t be nervous. We’ll guide you,” she whispered.

Sharon wasn’t nervous until this moment. It hadn’t crossed her mind earlier that reporters would be among the audience.