Jury duty means I'm not allowed to speculate. So stand by for rational thinking
Everyone says the recession has ushered in a fashion for the smaller scale. Bicycles not 4x4s, bedsits rather than loft extensions, allotment veg instead of the weekly Ocado. Ever modish, I'm going to offer you a downsized column: small, home-made observations rather than a great palatial sweep.
Secretly, this is nothing to do with the general 1950s-isation of Britain and simply because I'm doing jury service. I am literally under scrutiny from the thought police. I'll tell you about it at some point, once I've worked out what I can and can't say without going to prison. (One thing I've learnt is that you certainly can't bank on a sympathetic jury).
I thought I'd make a rather good juror. I am a professional poker player, after all: I spend half my life staring into men's faces, trying to work out whether or not they are telling the truth. And I am heterosexual, so I also spend the other half doing that.
Everyone said it would be fun. Turns out it's not fun. It is the least fun and mo