The Court

The judge looked about ninety six years old and straight from ‘comedy judge’ central casting. He was an antiquated specimen - posh, self-important and a serial interrupter.

We got led into the courtroom and told to line up.

‘Now they’re standing in exactly the wrong place for what I want them to do,’ the judge said, querulously. ‘I need them to see the defendant and say whether they recognise him or not.’

I was startled to see that there, in a huge glass box behind us, stood the defendant. A small, slight, dark haired young man, who seemed to come straight out of ‘little, scrotey villain’ central casting. He had very dark hair, an olive complexion, a slightly pockmarked face and small, furtive eyes.

Our quandary was how to look at him and make it seem as if we weren’t looking at him?

We were asked - did any of us recognise him?

No - we all shook our heads.

Did any of us know the _ estate in _?

No, once again a collective shaking of heads.

Did the defendant recognise any of us?

‘No, your honour,’ the defendant replied, sounding surprisingly deferential. He had a slightly high, slightly nasal voice. Dickensian villain.

‘He is accused of being in possession of a firearm,’ the judge said.

I flinched, involuntarily.

But he’s so small and slight and deferential! I thought.

‘Did any of the jurors recognise any of the other names in the case?’ The judge asked.

The first barrister looked surprised.

‘Ah, I wasn’t going to name the individual names connected with the case but the arresting officers were…’

This barrister reeled off a list of names. He was presumably the lawyer for the prosecution. He was slightly plump and middle aged with close cropped hair (just visible beneath his wig). He had a kind, humane-looking face. How can a person give the impression of kindness and humanity? I don’t know, but he did. Wouldn’t someone like that be better suited as a defence lawyer? I thought.

The defence lawyer himself was younger than the one for the prosecution and fiercely attractive, with sharp cheekbones. He was lounging arrogantly in a chair. Perhaps he’d done modelling to support himself through university and law school. He did not look kind.

The court clerk was very pretty. She had long, one length, straight black hair and sculpted eyebrows and she looked remarkably similar to one of the jurors. I wondered if she was alarmed to meet another of her species in here.

There were fifteen of us prospective jury members and, as they read out the names and assigned everyone a jury number, I realised that I hadn’t been picked. After all those days of interminable waiting around, being searched and that horrible feeling of confinement, I was disappointed. I never got to see the machinations of the trial and I never got to decide whether _ was guilty or innocent. 

Back up in the lift, along the endless, prosaic corridors and back into the hideous holding pen, which was like a combination of an airport lounge and a hospital waiting room. A Science Fiction purgatory.

A snapshot of the legal system.

The Other Side

I was going to pretend that this is about the other side of Christmas but it's probably more accurate to say that it's about the other side of 50.

In my last post I said that I wouldn't be doing new year resolutions and I'm not but, like many people, late December saw me feeling the ill effects of too much alcohol and rich food so I have cut back on both. Cut back, I say, rather than eliminated, because that's when the feelings of deprivation and mad cravings set in. I am currently making my way, slowly and modestly, through a wonderful cache of posh chocolates that I'd received for my birthday.  I love having this treasure trove of confectionery, which says a lot about me and a lifetime of dieting. What happens though, when the last box is eaten? No more chocolate? 

Please see above re cravings. Perhaps only posh chocolate, and only at weekends. Although I did see that T.V doctor bloke who has written a book about ultra processed food, talking about the dopamine highs that come with eating foods high in fat and sugar and how they keep you coming back for more so perhaps it would be better not to buy it….argh, I feel the grip of diet culture tightening it's hold again.The thing about ultra processed food is that we all know that food that hasn't been messed around with too much is better for us, but we haven't all got the money, time or resources to make meals from scratch. I work part time and my kids are a bit older now, so theoretically, I have more time to cook, but sometimes I just can't be arsed. It's such a bore and a chore, especially when your efforts aren't appreciated. To give him his due, T.V doctor wasn't suggesting a complete elimination of upf, but a change to 60% natural, 40% ultra processed. He reckoned that if you made your own biscuits they’d be more satisfying and you’d eat less of them. Not so sure about that.

Some biscuits the me and my daughter made - deliciously addictive!

January has hit like a bastard, with its usual prison guard, playground bully, bad energy. I know that ‘Blue Monday’ is a marketing fallacy and that you shouldn't wish your life away, especially after you’ve hit 50, but eurghh January! In the last few days I have been blighted with a hideous rash on my face, close enough to my eye to make it close up a little. It's sore and hurts worse when the cold wind hits it. The rather unsympathetic G.P I saw thinks that it's a cold sore and that there's nothing I can do about it. I know it could be much worse but I am feeling a bit sorry for myself. I think I would have felt better if the doctor had had a softer bedside manner. Perhaps I just wanted someone to say, ‘Oh, poor you, that looks sore.’ (If you do bump into me, please can you say that, rather than ‘ew, what's that thing on your face!’) Anyway I look like one of the plague victims who live in the cellar in ‘Ghosts’ at the moment.

Curated snapshot of 'the rash'.

I'm trying not to spend much money because I'm post-Christmas skint, again, I am aware of how much worse it could be, thanks. But I did buy some new pyjamas with one of my birthday vouchers, and they are nice and soft. I also have a hefty pile of books to be read, which will take a good while to get through as I'm currently chewing my way through ‘Middlemarch'. I’m enjoying it but it's not something you can just pick up and put down, lightly. I can't believe that the first time I read it was on a beach in Greece, aged 20, and I veritably flew through it. But I was a leaner, keener beast then. Man, I love books though, they make me happy. Not quite the same dopamine hit as a chocolate truffle but fairly close.

I have signed up for an in-person writing class. I am quite anxious about this and have my usual worries. This misplaced worrying is not focused on whether I'll learn anything or how my work will be assessed, but whether anyone will like me. I wish I didn't worry about this but I do. The problem is, I have realised, that I often go into situations expecting to be ignored and/or disliked. This probably comes across on my visage - an alarming combination of fear, neediness and hostility. Couple this with the plague rash and we’re on to a loser. Perhaps I should make myself a badge which reads ‘I'm quite nice when you get to know me’ (most of the time). I wish I didn't think like this. Philippa Perry says that you should go into a room full of strangers with the attitude ‘everyone here is attractive and interesting, including me’, but I'm not sure if that will work. I think that people who are anxious focus far too much on themselves. Perhaps I should pay attention to everyone else. Perhaps I can reinvent myself as the kindly, motherly one in the group, making sure that everyone is hydrated and warm enough and knows what time their train is due. Perhaps I should take baby wipes and mini rice cakes with me.

Anyhoo, that was a bit rambling. Thanks for reading. Chin up, hot drinks, jigsaw puzzles and meetups with friends. Long walks and comfort T.V. That's the way to endure the winter. Oh, and the other side of 50 isn't too bad.