Musings on Mongreldom; Jury Service, 3

As usual, I was retching as I prepared Blogger's disgusting breakfast. That's the downside of owning a dog, or rather, the two downsides: what you put in one end, and what comes out of the other.
Anway, that's enough about that.
I was thinking about identity and who we perceive ourselves to be. I have no identity, as I am not an English Rose, nor am I Jewish, Asian, Scottish, Jamaican, Lithuanian, African, Celtic, Japanese, Chinese, or anything else.
I am bits.
If I was a dog, I would be one of those grey wiry ones you see in Battersea Dogs Home, covered in coarse lumpy fluff that makes them look as though somebody dunked them in glue and then rolled them around a dirty house. Nobody ever owns them as a Statement Dog, but kids luv 'em.
I have a bit of this, a bit of that, nothing pure bred about me at all.
I don't even really know how to bark properly, but I do know how to run around like a fool with my tongue hanging out!

This is the sort of thing you think about, third day into jury service. I haven't spoken to anyone yet, because I'm having a blissful rest from everything except 'North of Watford' on my iPod. I don't know what makes Northern Soul fit so well with sitting with a bunch of people who think grey is a good idea for a winter coat, but there you go. Since Monday, everyone seems to have melted a little. They are slumping good-humouredly instead of sitting with pursed lips and obviously clenched buttocks. Those who have been siting on a jury have bonded with their fellow-jurors and sit in little judgement-communities making small-talk so we don't guess what naughty things their accused has been accused of. Those of us who haven't been into a courtroom yet are exiles, watching the sinister prisoner vehicles with blacked-out windows gliding past the window, delivering secret cargoes of baddies to the back door.

I regret to say that all I'm interested in this time (you see I did jury service a Southwark Crown Court ten years ago, and acually found the experience quite moving) is eating juror's lunch. A gorgeous smell of chips and other greasy delights came wafting out of the kitchen.
'Would the following jurors please go home and come back at ten tomorrow morning....'
Bah!

(by the way, Brother Tobias, I hooted with laughter at the thought of Bobby worrying about you stapling Guy's posterior. Time you had a party, for I want to sit on a hyacinth and get my own back)