Warren had one regret in life: he wanted to be called to jury service. All his friends, at some time in their lives, had been called up. Names were selected at random (apparently) from electoral rolls. Warren felt deep down that his time would come.
He didn’t want to sit on a jury that tried piffling little nothings. There’s nothing interesting about a woman called Mabel sneaking cannabis tucked in her pantyhose into a prison. There’s nothing interesting about a twenty-year old five-fingered discount personage called Norman swiping vacuum cleaner bags from a two dollar shop.
No! Warren wanted to sit on a jury that tried murder, and not just any murder, but a murder trial that went on for weeks. Something complex, with lots of intrigue and blood. That would certainly add a spice to his life.
Such an invitation to possibly spice up his life came last Thursday. Warren nonchalantly, almost absent-mindedly, went out to his mail box on the side of the road. There was a letter for him with a logo at the top that he did not recognize. Yes! He was summoned to jury service! He should make an appearance in court next week. Goodness! At last! At last!
So as we come to bury Warren today let us remember that he saw that his lifelong ambition was about to be fulfilled: jury service. This fulfilment was the last thing he saw before being hit by a passing car as he stood too far out on the road engrossed in reading his mail.