Bring a book to your lynching

Went to court today, sat in a small, largely featureless (for most of the time; at one point an excitable woman arrived determined to talk to the first person in the building she could find about Baycorp billing her for her 1995 broadcasting fee, or something) room for 2 hrs 30 minutes. Gave evidence. Was gently reprimanded in a nonetheless patronising tone by judge for speaking too quickly and thus not allowing for the (first and possibly last use of this word in this blog =>) stenographers. 'Screw you, judge' I yelled, wading into all and sundry with my until then neatly concealed flamethrower. Or felt like doing so, anyway, especially after halfway giving my evidence after my 150 minute wait it was suddenly time for a 90 minute lunchbreak.

That's right folks, become a court official, eat lunch for 90 minutes a day, that's 4 and a half Armourguard dinner breaks. Spectacular. Anyway, I wandered off and ate bagel and bought Edgar Allan Poe and Jack Johnson in that order, and got Scorpio Books to begin a pursuit of H.G. Wells at my behest. Town at lunchtime seemed to be densely populated by other corporate type 90 Minute Lunchers, wearing suits and ferrying their briefcases to delicatessens. Those who did not fall into this category were all inexplicably foreigners. In particular there seemed to be a disproportionate number of Americans, who kept coming into Scorpio and asking for phone books and bus stations.

Lunch completed, I returned to have my character called into question by the defence attorney, but her defence seemed somewhat lame on the whole; all isn't it possible and couldn't it be that and not a lot else. So fingers crossed the guy wot stole our money pleads guilty, as the constable in charge of the case thinks he might, and I don't have to go through the whole thing again. Having my testimony exactly read back to me was particularly painful, as it served to illustrate the ineloquence of my everyday conversation, which seemed to be peppered liberally and repetitiously with such ugly phrases as 'absolutely' and 'pretty much'. Luckily I saved the situation from complete ignominy by describing something as 'convivial', which I surprised even myself with.
Thank God for the melodious (as opposed to the malodorous) written word and its ridiculous variations and superfluities. Nobody goes to court and testifies: "Dawn came early, with rosy fingers". Nobody ever answers the conversation opener 'How's it going?' with 'Well actually Fred, I have no delight to pass away the time, unless to spy my shadow in the sun, and descant on my own deformity." Yay writing. It's uh, real good.

Right, better go play cricket, or prepare myself to do so.These posts keep ending up too (See Tim?) short for the time involved, must be time for a really big one soon.Oh, thanks everyone for the flood of disturbingly quick international e-mail from no fewer than 3 separate countries inquiring who was the lucky blind girl, and what caliber was the gun I was holding to her head? However, details will remain scant until I can secure an exclusive from Australian Woman's Weekly. But seriously folks, a gentleman does not reveal his secrets. Especially if he doesn't actually really have any. Luther has already revealed what I was trying to keep hidden, which is of course that I am the next best thing to milk. Context appreciated there Tim. And Traci from Canada has returned alive and well from Cuba, this is good. Hi Traci, e-mail on the way soonish - public promises force action, or this is the theory.

Oh, and Transmetropolitan is cool. Go guerilla journalism in the dystopian future. Yes.

Right.