As a child I loved going through a revolving door. No matter what building it was, or what kind of day lay ahead, if there was a revolving door there would be a sudden moment of excitement. My sister and I would race each other in and spin round and round until a stony faced, smartly dressed adult would suggest we should stop. Now that I’m a bit older, I’ve sadly lost that momentary thrill of something so simple and ordinary. My latest encounter with a revolving door was when I was called up for jury service. Every day I would begrudgingly wonder through this door with others who all seemed to dread the day ahead. After a while the faces I had seen in court became familiar. However, the rules stated that if I were to see them outside of the court I was not allowed to speak to them in fear of affecting the outcome of the case. And so, through this door I would see the faces of the witnesses, the persecutors, the defendant, the family members, the lawyers and the judge. I would have to pass through this door with them as if they were complete strangers, but I had learnt their names, their age, where they live, what they had done, their experiences, I had seen them in outbursts of pain, rage, frustration, fear and distress and yet they did not know me. They only knew my face. I was a stranger to them but they were not a stranger to me. I would often have to look down at my feet due to my feeling uncomfortable. There seemed to be an unspoken awareness that we knew each other and the situation we were both in. One would partially be responsible for a huge change in the other person’s life.