Or: What Happens When You Give a Website Owner Two Weeks, Free Wi-Fi and Far Too Much Time to Think

For readers outside the UK: Jury service is when ordinary members of the public are selected to sit in court, hear the evidence and decide whether someone accused of a crime is guilty. Not every country uses juries, and this is my experience of the system in England.

There are certain things you expect to achieve during jury service.

You might perform an important civic duty. You might gain a fascinating insight into the British justice system. You might even come away with renewed faith in the centuries-old institution of trial by jury.

I rebuilt a website.

Not deliberately, you understand.

I arrived at court expecting twelve days or so of serious legal proceedings, careful consideration of evidence and occasional dramatic moments worthy of a television courtroom drama.

Instead, I discovered something perhaps less widely advertised about the British justice system.

There is an absolutely enormous amount of waiting around.

And I had an iPad.

This was dangerous.

Day One: The Administration of Justice

The first challenge was getting into the building.

Court security is tight.

Very tight.

Tighter than a nun’s minge.

I appreciate this may not be terminology found in the official Ministry of Justice handbook, but it is considerably more descriptive.

Once successfully admitted into this fortress of jurisprudence, however, I discovered something extraordinary.

The Wi-Fi was excellent.

Not merely court-building excellent. Genuinely excellent.

Pages loaded instantly. WordPress responded beautifully. Images uploaded without complaint.

Unfortunately, the only thing in the building that appeared capable of moving at broadband speed was the broadband.

Britain’s courts have a well-documented backlog, and from the perspective of somebody sitting inside one, you begin to understand how a system can accumulate one.

There was waiting.

Then some waiting.

Occasionally somebody appeared and told us what we were waiting for.

Then we waited for that.

My daily step target, incidentally, was frequently completed remarkably early thanks to the amount of movement generated by this process.

My fitness tracker thought I had embarked upon a new health regime.

I was actually participating in British justice.

Apparently I Sound Responsible

Eventually, twelve of us found ourselves together as a jury.

Then came the important matter of selecting a foreman.

I was elected.

I would love to report that my fellow jurors immediately recognised my natural leadership qualities, analytical mind and reassuring command of complex situations.

Apparently I have a posh accent.

That was enough.

Centuries of British constitutional development, Magna Carta, trial by one’s peers and the evolution of our modern justice system had ultimately produced this remarkably efficient selection procedure:

“He sounds posh. Let him do it.”

And so I became foreman.

My Welsh ancestors would have been deeply confused.

The Great Social Experiment

Jury service also provides a fascinating opportunity to observe twelve complete strangers thrown together for an extended period.

Something interesting happened with our group.

The women clicked almost immediately.

They talked. They got to know one another. Conversations developed. There was laughter. By the end of it there was a genuine little social group forming.

The men?

We sat there looking at our devices.

Phones. Tablets. Whatever happened to be available.

Occasionally one of us might look up.

Nobody felt any particular need to spoil a perfectly good silence by introducing conversation.

And yet an odd little camaraderie developed.

During lunch, everyone dispersed into Stafford town centre. Then you’d spot another juror wandering around.

Nobody stopped for a conversation.

There would simply be the nod.

You know the one.

“Ah. You have also escaped.”

Nod.

“Enjoy your temporary freedom.”

Nod.

“See you back at the holding pen shortly.”

Nod.

Perfectly adequate social interaction.

And Then I Made the Mistake

At some point during one of the quieter periods, I thought:

“I’ll just have a quick look at the website.”

Those may be the most dangerous words ever spoken by somebody who owns a website.

Book Nook Workshop had grown extraordinarily quickly. What had begun only months earlier as a relatively simple site had accumulated reviews, guides, features, industry reports, competitions, affiliate pages and enough other material that “I’ll just check something” was roughly equivalent to saying:

“While I’m here, perhaps I’ll inspect the Forth Bridge for rust.”

I found something.

I fixed it.

Then I noticed something else.

I fixed that.

Then I wondered whether there were any more.

There were.

Jury Service: Day Four

By this point, the court believed I was patiently awaiting the administration of justice.

In reality, I was conducting an SEO audit.

Broken internal links were being discovered.

Old pages were being updated.

Navigation was being reconsidered.

Metadata was being checked.

Reviews were being standardised.

Pages that Google had mysteriously decided not to index were being investigated.

The court Wi-Fi continued to perform magnificently.

The court continued at a rather more traditional pace.

It became an extraordinary arrangement.

The longer the justice system took, the better Book Nook Workshop became.

The Internet’s Law of Instructions

Running a website is one thing.

Running a Facebook group alongside it teaches you something considerably more profound about human behaviour.

There is a fundamental law of the internet:

No matter how clearly you provide information, somebody will ask you for that information.

Write it in the original post.

“Where’s the link?”

Put the link in the first comment.

“I can’t find the link.”

Pin the post.

“Has anyone got the link?”

Create a Facebook Guide explaining everything.

“Is there a guide for beginners?”

Build an entire website containing more than a hundred reviews, tutorials, buyer advice, industry reports and searchable information.

“Hi, I’m new. Do you have a website?”

There are moments when you begin to wonder whether the greatest obstacle to online communication isn’t technology.

It’s reading.

Perhaps Facebook should replace the Like button with a Yes, I Actually Read It button.

It would receive considerably less use.

Two Weeks Later

Something strange had happened.

Book Nook Workshop was considerably better.

Not superficially better.

Properly better.

I’d gone through areas I’d been meaning to examine for months. I’d found things that had become outdated as the site expanded. I’d corrected links, improved structure and generally performed the sort of audit I’d never have found two uninterrupted weeks to undertake at home.

Because at home there are distractions.

There are book nooks to build.

Articles to write.

Facebook posts to answer.

Deliveries to hide from one’s wife.

Wine.

Court removed most of these distractions.

Instead, I had a chair, an iPad, excellent Wi-Fi and absolutely no idea whether anything was going to happen during the next three hours.

It may be the finest website-development environment I’ve ever encountered.

And They Paid Me

Eventually my jury service ended.

I had performed my civic duty.

The website had undergone a substantial regeneration.

My daily step count had been excellent.

I had acquired the prestigious title of jury foreman because of the way I pronounce things.

And His Majesty’s Government even paid me.

Sort of.

My magnificent financial reward eventually arrived in that most cutting-edge form of twenty-first-century payment technology:

a cheque from the Paymaster General.

A cheque.

I bank with Monzo.

Monzo cannot process it.

So somewhere in Britain I currently possess a small piece of paper proving that His Majesty’s Government owes me a meagre amount of money which my modern digital bank and His Majesty’s traditional payment system are apparently incapable of transferring between themselves.

This seems an appropriately British conclusion to the whole experience.

Case Closed

I came away from jury service with considerably more respect for the people who work inside the court system. They are dealing with a system under enormous pressure and a backlog that isn’t going to disappear overnight.

I also came away with a much better website.

And, unexpectedly, some fond memories of eleven strangers with whom I briefly shared something quite unusual.

The ladies talked.

The men stared at screens.

At lunchtime we scattered across Stafford.

Occasionally our paths crossed.

We nodded.

Then we returned to court.

Eventually, jury service finished and normal life resumed.

I opened Book Nook Workshop and admired the results of my two-week involuntary website retreat.

Everything looked considerably better.

The reviews were organised.

The links worked.

The structure made sense.

I was genuinely rather pleased with myself.

Then, several weeks later, I looked at the Facebook Guides.

Some of them are completely out of date.

Some point towards things that no longer exist.

I stared at the screen for a moment.

Perhaps I should commit a minor crime.

I could do with another fortnight.