Monday marks the beginning of my fourth week of tedious, dreary jury service. I don’t like it. I wish I had played the age card and got out of it.
Why so?
Most of us aren’t needed. They call in about sixty people per group, but only around one in five might end up on a jury panel.
And – even if the panel is chosen and sworn in, a trial might not go ahead.
While we wait – for hours, sometimes – we’re in a grim room, sitting in rows on hard, unforgiving chairs. After about thirty minutes, I start getting cramps. We can be stuck there for three hours or more, doing nothing, waiting for something that may never take place.
Then in comes the Clerk of Court.
‘Thank you for your patience, everyone. You’re not needed today. Don’t forget to check the Juryline at 5 p.m.’
Ah yes, the other major inconvenience. We never know until 5 p.m. whether we’re required the next day, which means we can’t make plans – only tentative ones.
I use the dead time to catch up on my reading. I can’t be bothered chatting with my neighbours. I feel out of place. I’m fairly certain I’m the oldest person in the room – bound to be, really. Any sensible seventy-something would have played the age card and bowed out.
So why didn’t I? Bert says it’s fear of missing out. Maybe he’s right. But believe me, fellow oldies – it’s not worth it.
