Wet Graves

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I’d brought the letters from my house in Glebe to my Darlinghurst office to give myself something official-feeling to do there. The Bankcard account and the electricity bill had gone up on the notice board to wait until I had the money and the inclination to pay them, but the two other envelopes looked more interesting. They were long and made of heavy duty paper, the kind you slit open rather than rip apart with your fingers. Both carried Sydney GPO box numbers to which they should be sent if wrongly delivered, but they had got their man-Mr Clifford A. Hardy. I took a Swiss army knife out of a drawer in the desk and slitted.

The first letter was from the office of the Sheriff of New South Wales informing me that my number had come up. I was a citizen, a ratepayer, a voter and eligible for jury duty. Unless I was disqualified for some reason, I was obliged to fill out the attached form and hold myself ready to serve as a good man and true. I’d met the requirement for going on twenty-five years and had never been invited before. I felt rather pleased about it-responsible, mature, a serious person with a stake in the community.

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