Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Call of Duty
Yes, 'tis true I don't get out much.
Some might say that's just as well. Considering.
However, come Monday week I've been called up for jury service. When I telephoned to confirm I'd received the notice, I quizzed them as to what it was all about. The silly girl wouldn't tell me a thing, apparently that could influence my opinion (huh?), but she did tell me to make myself available for TWO WHOLE WEEKS.
Oooh - what if it's a juicy murder trial? Just think of all the lovely blog-fodder it might throw up!
Hey, what if I get nobbled? I'd best warn hubby to keep an eye out for kidnappers. Mind you, if Jake goes missing I'll know it was him (those two really should really try to bond more).
Perhaps I might be offered a bribe? 'Course, I wouldn't accept one, well, not necessarily..
Eeeeeee, do you think we'll be sequestered? I've been longing for a few days off from the housework and cooking, and the great thing is, there isn't even anywhere to park. Whey-hey! Hubby will have to ferry me there and back, in between juggling all the off-spring to and fro.
Can you believe I am even going to get paid expenses for this? Ha, don't they know I'd happily pay THEM? Now, don't get me wrong, I know there are bound to be some boring bits, but so long as I remember to pack my i-pod and a flask of wine, I'm sure I'll be fine..
Talking of wine, I could have kicked myself on Sunday. Trust me to smile and nod to the only drunk on the beach. I thought he was swaying 'cos he was disabled. I felt bad seeing as how everyone else around was giving him such a firm body-swerve (I'm a bit over-sensitised at times). I didn't twig 'til he almost fell on me.
Damned wino wouldn't leave me be after that. As for that dog of mine - he's gone from hero to zero. Never a one to pass up a play-pal, he only went and fetched every single pebble the guy threw. He can forget that steak, count on it (the mutt, not the wino; not that I'm about to be offering him any, either).
In the end, I decided to run away. Surprised, Jake reluctantly cottoned on, and (eventually) joined me. 'Course, I knew this guy wouldn't catch me, but hell, I really didn't expect him to try so hard. Near gave me heart failure, so's it did!
Hubby tells me he wants to be a postman. This is not news, he's said it before. I don't know why he always acts so surprised when I inform him that unless we win the lotto, he'll need to keep up with his growdie-up job for now.
He agreed to fly back to London for the week if I'd promise to give it some thought. S'pose I'd best crack on with that book then, eh? It'll need to be a best seller if I'm soon to keep us in the standard we hope to become accustomed to.
Update: That rotten kill-joy hubby of mine has only gone and made me claim undue hardship over serving on this jury call I've had. Seems ONE of us has to be around for the kids. He also points out if I allowed him to be a postie, he wouldn't have to be off the isle at all, thus freeing me up to attend as many would-be murder trials as my little heart desires. That's nothing but sheer and outright blackmail that is, isn't it?