I am spared jury service tomorrow but must again phone The Number tomorrow night. This is frustrating – it is impossible to plan anything, impossible to put some of the junk – I mean, the fine and slightly used ephemera of yesteryear – on eBay because I don’t know if I’ll be available to post it. It’s impossible to risk twanging the rib with much-needed shelf building, garage rearrangement or attic sorting in case I have to get up early and not in pain the next day.
In short, I am gnashing my hair and rending my teeth and pulling my garments here. Either bloody well call me in or tell me I’m not needed. One or the other. I can’t even concentrate on writing. It was like this last time too.
Worse – I miscalculated. When they ‘randomly select’ me again five years from now I will not be on the pension. They can get me up to six months before the pension starts. The next five years will involve accumulating an emergency fund to make sure they don’t manage to bugger up my life yet again.
Boss has overtime available but I can’t accept it. I don’t know until after 5 pm whether I’ll have to attend the court the next day. That’s too late to allow her to adjust shift patterns.
In the absence of any ability to concentrate, brought on mainly by limited whisky (once this jury nonsense is over, I am going to have a liver ripe for plundering) I’m not posting anything sensible. Instead I’m going to talk about willies.
Not the drab and foetid member that is Septic Glans, not this time. VGIF has already shown his latest pronouncement to be limp and flaccid and left out in the cold until it looks like a walnut whip. Oh no. I’m talking about real willies. But then, not real willies at all.
In five years they plan to test these lab-willies on humans. Quite what this testing involves is not absolutely clear. So in five years’ time, avoid bending over if there is someone behind you in a white coat, carrying a suspiciously-shaped box and a clipboard and wearing a grin.
It’s the one thing never mentioned in a Dr. Who regeneration and yet it’s the first thing any normal male, of any species, would check. To hell with hair colour or even number of fingers on each hand – is it bigger this time or (the horror!) smaller? One Doctor was able to paint it in stripes and use it as a scarf, but that was back when nobody got the joke.
There are very good intentions behind the idea to grow these lab-willies but still, I’d love to read the research proposal. I’d like to have seen the responses too, which must range from ‘uh-huhuhuh, he said willies’ to ‘Have you risk-assessed the chances of a zombie willie apocalypse?’ I wonder if they sprout like mushrooms from a Petri dish or whirl around in a large fermentor, occasionally presenting one eye to the viewing window?
For now the Williemen have a serious purpose but at the backs of their minds will be another thought, I’m sure. Five years from now, the current smoker-hate and drinker-hate might well have passed and then they’ll make a fortune.
With novelty drinking straws and cigarette holders.