*/
Another month, another Prime Minister. Another month, another Lord High Chancellor. Or, more accurately, the last-but-one returns. The new one, or rather the returning one, had previously been in post for almost a year. His predecessor, who had also been his successor of course, managed 31 days, which is almost respectable now. The returning one is the tenth Lord Chancellor in 12 years – or the ninth, if you count him just once. By Christmas some think we will be welcoming the eleventh, or tenth as you prefer. This may be for the reasons we know about presently, for another reason or just a statistical prediction.
Meanwhile, the Bar has for now settled its differences over pay with the Ministry of Justice although the rise will doubtless be gobbled up by inflation before we even receive it.
While all these surreal statistics float around our world, the Criminal Bar has returned to work. After a long gap, my legs felt leaden as I struggled to access such public transport as was not on strike and headed off to a former market town north-east of London which was never my favourite place, even when it resembled a country town instead of now being one vast shopping mall containing every useless commercial outlet you would never want to visit.
Walking through scenes not unlike those in Les Miserables, I found a coffee shop run by cheery young Romanian lads with exotic tattoos. The court canteen has no staff as they walked out for good and all a few weeks ago.
It was, however, a joy to open the door to the robing room, when I finally managed to input the code successfully. ‘Hello, hello!’ they shrieked as I walked in. ‘Well, hello!’ I replied rather like the first day of term at school. All my old friends were there, brought back to life for another round of the favourite game show: criminal justice.
Looking unravaged by time was Maggie Peppa-Jones KC who had set up camp at one of the three long tables in the cramped space. Wet coats were strewn everywhere. I had noticed that a monsoon seemed to be tethered over this town. It was there each day until 10.30, replaced by sun, and back again by 4pm.
Many a time in the good old days, Maggie and I had gone to her exclusive club for a glass of champagne, and ended up staying so late we managed breakfast at a greasy spoon before getting an hour’s sleep. ‘What brings you to this grim place?’ she said, although she used two different words. It transpired that we had all been farmed out from other court centres much nearer to where our clients’ alleged crimes had been committed.
‘Is there a restaurant nearby?’ I asked. There was an amused cackle. ‘Or a Waitrose or an M&S?’ This caused tears of laughter to run down some people’s faces.
The staff as always were lovely and doubtless under far greater stress than we were, still managing to serve the system loyally and with the usual professionalism and cheer. The judge too was kind and accommodating, although it was clear his list was bulging with other cases that needed to pop in periodically and resolve a hundred and one issues.
The staff in the cells put my junior and me into one of those tiny conference rooms that seem ideally suited to spreading a suite of seasonal illnesses. When my client shuffled in, he seemed to be in the grip of one himself. He pointed to his chest and made a universal sign of distress. ‘We haven’t met before,’ I said ‘but although I haven’t had the papers for long I understand what you are saying.’ He looked at me and when he had finished coughing he said, in a heavy accent: ‘Please mister, let me get home to my wife and kids. I been here two year. This is too much badnesses.’ ‘Time’s up,’ said the jolly warder knocking on the glass, ‘we’re understaffed and there’s a big queue to get in.’
‘What is happening to this country?’ I said to my junior as we went up in the lift. ‘Reality,’ she replied. I walked out into the now sunlit corridor, and was about to respond with a quip from the book of gallows humour, when I felt that tell-tale tickle at the back of my throat. ‘Do you think they sell lateral flow test kits round here?’ I asked, as we passed an empty hand gel container fixed to the wall, but as she doubled her pace, I received no answer.
William Byfield is the pseudonym of a senior member of the Bar. Gutteridge Chambers, and the events that happen there, are entirely fictitious.
Another month, another Prime Minister. Another month, another Lord High Chancellor. Or, more accurately, the last-but-one returns. The new one, or rather the returning one, had previously been in post for almost a year. His predecessor, who had also been his successor of course, managed 31 days, which is almost respectable now. The returning one is the tenth Lord Chancellor in 12 years – or the ninth, if you count him just once. By Christmas some think we will be welcoming the eleventh, or tenth as you prefer. This may be for the reasons we know about presently, for another reason or just a statistical prediction.
Meanwhile, the Bar has for now settled its differences over pay with the Ministry of Justice although the rise will doubtless be gobbled up by inflation before we even receive it.
While all these surreal statistics float around our world, the Criminal Bar has returned to work. After a long gap, my legs felt leaden as I struggled to access such public transport as was not on strike and headed off to a former market town north-east of London which was never my favourite place, even when it resembled a country town instead of now being one vast shopping mall containing every useless commercial outlet you would never want to visit.
Walking through scenes not unlike those in Les Miserables, I found a coffee shop run by cheery young Romanian lads with exotic tattoos. The court canteen has no staff as they walked out for good and all a few weeks ago.
It was, however, a joy to open the door to the robing room, when I finally managed to input the code successfully. ‘Hello, hello!’ they shrieked as I walked in. ‘Well, hello!’ I replied rather like the first day of term at school. All my old friends were there, brought back to life for another round of the favourite game show: criminal justice.
Looking unravaged by time was Maggie Peppa-Jones KC who had set up camp at one of the three long tables in the cramped space. Wet coats were strewn everywhere. I had noticed that a monsoon seemed to be tethered over this town. It was there each day until 10.30, replaced by sun, and back again by 4pm.
Many a time in the good old days, Maggie and I had gone to her exclusive club for a glass of champagne, and ended up staying so late we managed breakfast at a greasy spoon before getting an hour’s sleep. ‘What brings you to this grim place?’ she said, although she used two different words. It transpired that we had all been farmed out from other court centres much nearer to where our clients’ alleged crimes had been committed.
‘Is there a restaurant nearby?’ I asked. There was an amused cackle. ‘Or a Waitrose or an M&S?’ This caused tears of laughter to run down some people’s faces.
The staff as always were lovely and doubtless under far greater stress than we were, still managing to serve the system loyally and with the usual professionalism and cheer. The judge too was kind and accommodating, although it was clear his list was bulging with other cases that needed to pop in periodically and resolve a hundred and one issues.
The staff in the cells put my junior and me into one of those tiny conference rooms that seem ideally suited to spreading a suite of seasonal illnesses. When my client shuffled in, he seemed to be in the grip of one himself. He pointed to his chest and made a universal sign of distress. ‘We haven’t met before,’ I said ‘but although I haven’t had the papers for long I understand what you are saying.’ He looked at me and when he had finished coughing he said, in a heavy accent: ‘Please mister, let me get home to my wife and kids. I been here two year. This is too much badnesses.’ ‘Time’s up,’ said the jolly warder knocking on the glass, ‘we’re understaffed and there’s a big queue to get in.’
‘What is happening to this country?’ I said to my junior as we went up in the lift. ‘Reality,’ she replied. I walked out into the now sunlit corridor, and was about to respond with a quip from the book of gallows humour, when I felt that tell-tale tickle at the back of my throat. ‘Do you think they sell lateral flow test kits round here?’ I asked, as we passed an empty hand gel container fixed to the wall, but as she doubled her pace, I received no answer.
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