Here is the latest blog from our students and graduates.

Kierran Allardice is a journalism student at Glasgow Caledonian University. He has a love for sport and passion for statistics.

We spend our young lives not wanting to be picked last.

No-one wants to be the last to be picked from a line of 40 for that whole year football game at lunchtime.

No-one wants to be that one guy sitting on the bench watching the rest of the boys take part in Scottish country dancing in PE.

But when you grow up there's one thing that virtually everyone wants to be picked last for, or not picked at all. Jury duty.

It all begins with a letter - which I received months ago - just politely informing me that my name is on a jurors list and I could be called to attend court. I didn't think much of it though; at this stage it's harmless.

Then a couple of months down the line, when the idea has vacated my mind weeks before, I received the dreaded letter. That letter that asks me to attend a certain court on a certain date.

So I sat there letter in hand, racking my brains for any possible reason I could supply them with to get myself out of this situation. Nothing sprung to mind. I guess I could do nothing but go.

The day came, I got up nice and early, made myself presentable and headed off.

I was one of the last to arrive so I gazed round the room awkwardly looking for any seats that could have been vacant.

Never has a room full of 50 people ever been so silent. Not a single word uttered.

What do you say to someone you've never met before? Someone who, in a matter of days, you will probably go back to not knowing?

Then, like cadets on parade, they march you down to the court room where the case is taking place. Everyone takes their seats and you're made aware of the case.

Your heart sinks, the nerves rumble away in your stomach.

You bow your head to avoid eye contact, like when your teacher asks the class a question because eye contact probably means you'll be picked.

Three names and numbers down and you're still sitting there, is there hope yet?

The fourth number is read out…it's yours. The fourth name is read…it's yours. It's you, you've been chosen.

50 names went into the ballot and only 15 came out. Mine just happened to be one of those 15.

Of course it was. That's just my luck.

But I guess if you look on the bright side...it's going to be another five years at the very least before my name is included in another dreaded ballot.