And odd hush has descended on Beirut. The shops around Rue Hamra are all still open, still the omnipresent middle-aged men sit on patio furniture smoking in the midday heat. Fruit sellers still stare blankly into the middle distance, ignoring the flies that cluster about their produce.

But no one is talking. Yesterday was the final day of campaigning and the Future Movement PR machine, as well as Hizbollah’s, was in full flow. Saad Hariri, with his impossibly symmetrical facial hair, looked at ease as the statesman, calling for free and fair elections, with “massive” participation.

A Hizbollah rally on state television showed easily 100,000 supporters deliriously waving yellow and green flags in South Beirut.

But not today. Today all is quiet. There is even talk of a curfew to ensure that things run nice and smoothly tomorrow. Cafes and bars are supposed to be shut by midnight and we are being advised against venturing out after that.

This lull in the fervent political dialogue is quite refreshing, even after less than a week. Speaking to Mihad, a Chemistry student at LAU yesterday, it was clear that my ennui is shared among the majority of Lebanese.

“I wish politicians would just leave us alone. We want to live in peace, to have fun. Everything else is a distraction.”

On Twitter, Beirut Spring summed it up thus: “That peace in the air is the sound of politicians not talking.. Today is a day for reflection.”

I have my first article in the Daily Star today, about student voting on Sunday (http://tinyurl.com/oxbw7z). The range and ardour of views still astounds me, particularly as a journalist. You hear about 20 different views, all delivered with utter, conviction, utter faith. Deciphering the truth between the isolationist rhetoric of March 8 and the scaremongering of March 14 is a little like walking a tightrope.

I hear many things. I hear that there will be huge violence among the Palestinian camps throughout Sunday. I hear that if it looks as if the government are winning by 4pm, militias will be mobilised. I also hear that (and want to believe this one) that violence is impossible, that Lebanon has bled too much, has travelled too far down this democratic road, for violence to once again engulf this tiny, proud state.

I filed my copy and made it to the Duke of Wellington, a hang out for expat journalists and teachers alike, in time for happy hour. The subsequent trip to the Captain’s Cabin was sweaty and loud in equal measure. The barman, Andre is a Beiruti institution. He seamlessly dispenses bottles of beer while taking your money and totting up about 30 different tabs. He is a machine.

I will no doubt skulk back to the Cabin’s enveloping dinge to watch the England match. I am not proud of myself.