What an anticlimax. Got to the courthouse, spiffy in Bidness Casual. Went through the security checkpoint, setting off a metal-detector with my new bionic hip -- a new experience for me. Ankled up to the Jury Waiting Room, registered, got a badge. A woman gives a lecture -- no talking about the trial, even with fellow jurors, lunch is at noon, yadda yadda. They call out the jurors in alphabetical order; my meatspace surname is deep in the alphabet, so I'm not called. The first half of the alphabet troops out of the room, presumably for voir-dire, or perhaps it was estoppel, or tenure by serjaunty -- anyway, one of those comical Medieval French terms those lawyer johnnies throw around to earn the big bucks.
The rest of us, we superior souls with the good taste and discretion to have surnames beginning with N-Z, wait.
Two hours, we wait. Periodically, the woman in charge pops her head in to assure us we haven't been forgotten. Just a little while longer, thanks for your patience.
Then, at 10:30, she pops in again. The trial we'd been awaiting has been postponed. We are free to go, and our jury-duty obligations have been discharged, and we're regular citizens again.
Ah, well. Better than a day at the coal-face.