Parliament House Gets Weirdly Quiet in an Election

The election has been called and the government is in caretaker mode. The politicians have all returned to their constituencies to reapply for their jobs. It's the most concentrated triennial moment of politics in Australia, and the most political part of the country is empty. Parliament House is a ghost house.

It feels strange to be here, like I'm trespassing. Actually, no. That's not the 21st century analogy. It's more like the occupants have gone away for a few weeks and put their home up on Airbnb. They're cool with me being there, so long as I don't touch anything. Like the Magna Carta, which is placed behind alarmed glass. Or the Senate hearing rooms, which are guarded by armed security.

If you've never been to Parliament House before, it's usually a hive of activity. Now it's disturbingly quiet. There are tourists about, but the place feels like school during the holidays. Which is weird given the sheer number of school kids here, but also consistent given this time last week the building felt exactly like the last day of school: everyone itching to go home, speedy Senate estimates hearings, a flurry of appointments (103 to be exact, including six Ambassadors and 76 members of the Administrative Appeals Tribunal). You know, just like school.

One week ago, the café was filled with staffers comparing notes on policies, talking about white papers, and speculating on the upcoming election. At least, the ones I was able to eavesdrop on were. Now, a handful of tourists mill solemnly about, quietly eating their chips and drinking their coffees. I'm there during what would normally be the lunch rush, but it's so desolate that a cleaner has chosen this as the perfect time to clean the couches.

The ghostly feeling is aided by the portraits of old prime ministers staring down at us from the walls. Without dozens of tourists crowding about and taking photos, the paintings take on a whole new atmosphere. The gallery is a very different place when the long-departed leaders outnumber you.

The House and Senate chambers are empty, but this isn't particularly notable. You have to arrive at the right time on the right day to catch parliament in session. Today it's filled with school children on tours. Parliamentary guides quiz them on the name of the Governor-General, and tell them historical facts about 12 hour long filibusters. "Who here thinks they can talk for 12 hours straight?" One kid confidently begins: "Blah blah blah blah…" The guide interrupts: "But you can't just go 'blah blah blah blah'. You have to talk like a member of Parliament." Sorry, but I've seen Question Time. Gonna have to side with the kid on this one.

The proclamation that dissolved Parliament on Monday sits on display outside the House chamber. Because the election was called on the back of the Double Dissolution, the proclamation specifically lists the three laws that have triggered the election: "Building and Construction Industry (Improving Productivity) Bill 2013, Building and Construction Industry (Consequential and Transitional Provisions (Bill 2013), Fair Work (Registered Organisations) Amendment Bill 2014."

Technically, this election is about, and only about, these three bills. And yet we're probably not going to hear anything about them for the next eight weeks. Good thing, too. This election is boring enough already chat to some staff, who appear far more relaxed than the last time I was here. Despite the House, the Senate and the hearing rooms all being empty, apparently it's still very busy behind the scenes. Back in the private offices and sections that the public isn't granted access too. The politicians are all mostly out in the hustings, but their staff are all still working away.

The big difference for the building's staff (the café workers, janitors, security guards and guides) is that there aren't the usual number of visitors coming through. They can have 500 each day passing through for meetings. Based on what I've seen today, that number seems to have been replaced by school kids. A man I take for a bus driver approaches the information desk to ask about the group he's supposed to pick up, but there are so many school groups in the building, it takes the women behind the desk a very long time to locate the actual one he's after.

It's difficult trying to guess what the mood must be like here. The building itself, and therefore its workers, are technically nonpartisan. So how do they feel about being in election mode? Mostly, they're just anticipating all the new names, portfolios and policies they're going to have to learn. I wonder if this election is more tense for them than the last one; three years ago we were facing a predetermined landslide, and you have to assume that a degree of certainty would allow them to start memorising names well in advance. This year, it's going to be very, very close.

It's a very strange feeling to be in the heart of a city designed and built purely to be the domain of Australian politics, and for that city to feel empty, and for all the politics of the day taking place in every part of the country but here. Almost makes it the perfect time to visit.

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