Sinister: the little white-haired old man

[Will Salt]

WARNING: no content found below.  If you want content, skip.  I bet a
goodly proportion of you are too bothered about what you'll be doing
at the weekend to even be *reading* this, though.

Oooh, I've been having a bad week.  This is just to get it off my
chest, really.  I've been having a bad week because I was called up as 
a juror in the High Court.  For several days, I've been dressing up
all posh in a suit -- well, my only suit -- to go up to court (it's
only just along the street, really) and sit around doing nothing.

They never actually got as far as wanting a jury, even, so my time was 
wasted.  Each morning 30 of us would sit around in the courtroom, or
outside the courtroom, or in the courtroom cafe, waiting for the
wheels of justice to grind on, and just before lunch the judge would
call us all in and explain that the case still wasn't ready for trial
today.

For some reason, all the seats in Scottish courtrooms are designed to
be as uncomfortable as possible -- except the judges', of course.  I
assume this is meant to keep you awake.  I was expecting that
Parliament House -- which is where the Supreme Courts sit -- would be
posh and shiny everywhere inside, but none of the fittings looked like 
they'd been replaced since 1952.  This is one reason why I'm glad that 
I didn't have to sit on the jury in the end.

The other reason i didn't want to sit, is that it was a *nasty* case.
This little, white-haired old man, who sat outside the courtroom
waiting with all the rest of us, was on trial for lots of charges of
"Lewd and Libidinous Behaviour", which sounds like a night out on the
piss, but in real language translates to incestous and occasionally
paedophilic sexual abuse.  I did *not* want to have to spend weeks
hearing all about how this man spent 15 years interfering with his
family.  I didn't want to have to say "he did it" or, on the other
hand, "you're lying" to his [alleged] victims.  When we were waiting
this morning, he was sat next to me, and I couldn't help wondering:
are you lying?  daren't you own up?  why would people claim you did
*that* if you didn't?  I'm glad I won't get to know the answers.

Still, now that's all over, and I get to go away on holiday for a
bit.  I shall entrust myself to the Great North-Eastern Railway and go 
and visit the parents for a bit.  Getting all my meals cooked and cups 
of tea in bed should take my mind off of things for a bit ;-)  I would 
say "are there any listees living in Grimsby who would like to meet
up?"  if i wasn't sure that there won't be any.  Oh, except that
Ms. Deller who was writing a dissertation about B+S fans or
something.  And I bet she'll be somewhere less boring instead.

I bet there aren't even any listees living in Grimsby, Canada.  And I
don't even know what that place is like.

I couldn't help wondering what a Sinister courtroom drama would turn
out like.  Who would be the judge, for one thing?  Sinister, the
police drama might work a bit better, though.  All those New Yorkers
for the gritty urban bits.  Amy Jackson and John Maxwell could do a
few scenic Highlands scenes in the Hamish McBeth style.  I'm sure plenty 
of Londoners could do a few The Bill-style lines of dialogue --
"You're going DAAAAAAHHHHHHN, you SLAAAAAAAAAGGGG!!"  And I've never
met him, but I'm reliably informed that Ally Cook is scary enough to
be Taggart.

Princess Honey, of course, would be the damsel-in-distress who has to
be saved-in-the-nick-of time every episode.  We could keep tying her
to railway lines, or something -- although for that, handlebar
moustaches are of course *compulsary* for the villains.

More scary things: I was out shopping in a bookshop today.  I was
looking through the Biography section, and this mad old homeless-type
person was looking at all the pictures of people on the covers and
trying to argue and shout at them.  I was scared -- I always am scared 
of the mad alcoholic old men that you often see on the streets round
here -- and had to hide in the Photography section until he went
away.  Mad alcoholic old men have an annoying habit of singling *me*
out for abuse as i walk past them in the street.  I can never
understand how they can afford to buy so much Special Brew.
Especially enough to make them try to talk to the pictures on the
covers of books.

Gah, I'm sorry for rambling on.  See, you knew it wouldn't be worth
reading this.

xxx

will

-- 


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