One thing is certain: we have no idea

In the middle of December I packed a small bag and did something I do all too rarely—I left the office, bound for Adelaide.

My head was swimming with all the essays written in the abstract as commentators around the world attempted to interpret a year in global politics that was almost impossible to interpret. I knew I had no hope of breaking through the collective fog of magnificently written incomprehension at how the tectonic plates had shifted so rapidly and decisively, but as I drove too fast in the direction of the Canberra airport in the delicate early-morning shimmer of daylight I set myself the modest objective of walking in someone else’s shoes. My objective was to speak to people who were voting for Nick Xenophon rather than for one of the major parties, and play their voices back into the process.