That Man Parkinson

It is a commonplace observation that work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion. Thus, an elderly lady of leisure can spend the entire day in writing and despatching a postcard to her niece at Bognor Regis. An hour will be spent in finding the postcard, another in hunting for spectacles, half-an-hour in a search for the address, an hour and a quarter in composition, and twenty minutes in deciding whether or not to take an umbrella when going to the pillar-box in the next street. The total effort which would occupy a busy man for three minutes all told may in this fashion leave another person prostrate after a day of doubt, anxiety and toil.

'Parkinson's Law' in The Economist, November 19, 1955

For the last fortnight I have been on Jury Service, an almost unavoidable duty for anyone on the British Electoral Rolls. Potential jurors are chosen entirely at random and, unlike times past, if your name comes up you're well advised to clear your diary for the prescribed fortnight but also be prepared in case you're co-opted into a much longer commitment. It is the stuff of nightmares for the self-employed. 

The Monday before last I presented myself to the London Central Criminal Court, aka the 'Old Bailey', a place name familiar to every Australian schoolchild thanks to the convict era song Botany Bay. 

The process is simple: I was part of a weekly intake of about 120 Londoners. From time to time sixteen or so of us, selected at random, were told to go to one of the courtrooms whereat twelve of our number, again chosen at random from the sixteen, were empaneled onto trials lasting anywhere from a few hours to many months. The unchosen were sent back to the holding pen to await the next call. 

This was how I spent the week before last: working in the waiting area, trooping down to courtrooms and then trooping back up again. Then last Friday they sent a bunch of us home for good, the seeming rationale being that a new cohort of 120 would be arriving on Monday and we were somehow surplus to requirement. 

The British Criminal Justice system gifted me a week but how not to squander it?

I worked through the important-but-not-urgent box of the Eisenhower matrix.  I gave myself early starts, but not too early so as to catch the indescribable joy of being in the room when my daughter wakes.  I tried for sober evenings, except that the sun shone all week and any guy who can resist the temptation of a pint with mates in summery London is a stronger man than me.  

So I got stuff done but not enough.  Being successfully self-employed means that there's always stuff to be done.  A clear corollary of Parkinson's Law is that a short To Do List is wasteful. If you're going to spend the time at your desk and away from friends and family then you might as well get as much done as possible.