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Fights for justice

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So today, like a good citizen of the Wide Brown Land, La toddled off to report for jury duty.

This guy came pushing his actual, real-live reason to be excused.  Was jealous.

Had to jettison this at the door, which hurt.


Decided very early on, after rubbing shoulders with Matt Day at the female Junior Cost Centre’s nippers debut yesterday, that it would only be right to channel the spirit of Cleaver Greene and make like I was being called to the Supreme Court, Taylor Square, to appear as an extra in la beloved Rake.


I put on my best concerned-and-dutiful-citizen, lock-the-b*****ds-up face, and waited for hair and make-up, the craft services van and Richard Roxburgh to arrive. But, like the tiger the little girl hoped would come back again for tea, he never did.

Made friends with a sweet fellow, we talked holidays and ABC comedy. He confessed either Dicky Roxburgh or Matty Day were welcome to park their slippers under his bed anytime. We *sighed*, jointly and collectively.

In a risky manoeuvre worthy of that Austrian who just parachuted from an altitude of 38km, La snapped a piccie inside la palazzo of justice.


Let no man decree I do less than serve the very best voyeuristic interests of the great body of readers of, a readership that stretches from Palestinian Territories, Occupied to the outer archipelagos of Los Philippines. (Greetings Imelda! Did you find La by googling ‘awesome shoes’?!? Welcome, you are among friends!)

After much bloody waiting nervous anticipation, La was dismissed on the grounds of being a carer of young loin fruits.

But after all that jurisprudence, it seemed right to wander back to the Wordporium only after making a pilgrimage to Rake HQ.



Get the impression the Harbour City’s bathed in sunshine right now? You would be right.


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