Positively thrilling news, folks – I have been summoned for jury duty. I hope I get a murder. But knowing my luck I’ll probably land a dreary case of credit card fraud or shoplifting at Lidl. Something very dull that won’t even make the local papers. In which case, I say hang ‘em.
Whenever anything vaguely out of the ordinary happens to me I become convinced that my life is about to dramatically change for the better. This is fate finally knocking on my door. Serendipity. How could this not lead to romance? Excitement? Danger? Or even just a meaningless shag.
See, when you’ve failed to meet a man through the conventional routes – school, university, work and friends – and aren’t entirely certain some forklift truck-driving townie or web-dork who hasn’t seen the light of day for several years really is your Match.com, such happenstances take on a new significance. If my life were a movie or TV show (and I believe mine should be) this is my inciting incident. The bit where boy meets girl. Or Obi-Wan Kenobi whisks you away from your aunty and uncle’s boring-ass farm to become a Jedi. I’m not fussed which.
“Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore...”
I’m tempted to turn up to court in some ruby slippers, you know. Because I couldn’t give a crap about performing my civic duty and seeing justice done. No. This is all about me, me, me. And my starring role in some gritty courtroom drama adapted from a John Grisham novel... Where I fall for a fellow juror or a lawyer... Maybe get caught up in some crazy murder and crack the case myself. Like an episode of Murder She Wrote, but with really graphic sex scenes... Or I run off with the perp. Make my movie a thriller. Yeah, bust his bad ass outta prison and go on the run, holding up Lidl stores the length and breadth of the UK to survive. Like a poor man’s Bonnie & Clyde.
Told you I have a tendency to get carried away... My car broke down recently and the moment it came sputtering to a halt in front of a roundabout I thought, ‘This is it! The perfect premise for my real-life romcom. Boy meets girl. How can this not lead to romance?!’. So what’s a girl to do but sit there and wait for her knight in shining armour to show up? (No, seriously – what the hell else are you supposed to do?! I’m clueless when it comes to cars.)
But, as I watched car after car after car after bastard car simply pull around me and continue on their merry way to work, it finally occurred to me to call the breakdown company. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do, dumbass. And where were my breakdown details? Why, carefully filed in a folder at home, of course. So I did what any independent, grown woman of 29 would do in this situation. I called my mother. But she wasn’t answering, damn her! So I called again and again and again. I even got out of the car to call her from the pavement, just to fool all those bastard drivers glaring at me as they manoeuvred past into thinking I was doing something constructive. Instead of just sitting there, behind the wheel, frozen in fear. And sheer stupidity.
It took a full 15 minutes before a lone cyclist stopped to help, bless him. Chivalry is not dead. But a knight in head-to-toe illuminous lycra? I think not. He offered to push me closer to the pavement out the way. Well, he pushed and he pushed, but the car wouldn’t budge. So, yay!, White Van Man took pity on him and stopped to help. And they pushed and they pushed. “Have you got it in gear?” White Van Man enquired. “Yep,” I proudly replied, jiggling my gear stick to emphasise my car know-how. “No, love,” he sighed. “You need to take it out of gear.” Oh, the shame! I promptly put it in neutral, but by now the steering was on full lock – in my wisdom, I’d decided that turning the wheel really hard toward the pavement would aid our efforts to get there, presumably through sheer willpower. So we immediately hit the curb at a ridiculous angle. White Van Man despaired. “Just give it a try, love.” I turned the key in the ignition and, thank Christ, my Corsa started. I drove off with a little embarrassed wave in thanks. Couldn’t look either of them in the eye, so I’ll never know if White Van Man was The One. Probably not – ‘I don’t do the trades’, as a friend of mine has observed. And after successfully establishing myself as an incompetent twat of the highest order, I doubt even Bike Boy would have wanted me. So a decidedly un-romcom-like experience.
I was finally put out of my misery when my mother phoned back and sorted the whole mess out for me. I am 29 years of age. 30 in a couple of weeks. Soon she’ll have to start tying my shoelaces again.
Anyway... After a whopping 800-odd words, I have the pleasure of presenting you with – my point. So yes, I am about to reach the grand old age of 30, and in order to distract myself from the horrors of this I have booked a week-and-a-half off work to go to New York. Very exciting. But, see, I have been called for jury duty for the two weeks just before I go. So the prospect of my not working for most of the month of June went down about as well as a thing that (because I am crap at thinking of suitable analogies) doesn’t go down at all well with my boss. And hence I’ve had a shitty day at work.
When I come home from a shitty day at work I just want comfort food – something home-cooked and served with a smile. And a large glass of wine. The kind of meal I’ll lovingly cook for my husband in my dangerously idealised Doris Day marriage.
“Hi Honey, I’m home!”
“Dinner’s on the table, darling!”
I have a few cunningly quick and tasty weeknight meals I make that bring out the smug, 1950s all-American housewife in me, and the smoked salmon and pea burgers I’ll put up on my next post are one of my favourites. But there’s no such dinner waiting for me when I get home – because when you most need a home-cooked meal is when you’re least capable of making it. Nope, it’s an M&S microwave meal and the best part of a bottle of Jacob’s Creek for me. Oh, the glamour of it all.
Next post: recipe and conclusion...
Illustration by Bex Barrow.
