Ho hum. Just back from court on a s.359 (rectification of a register of company shareholders, if you're interested, which I doubt). Mr Registrar [N] decided to spend half the hearing reminiscing about his very first case as a Registrar back in the good old days, and how I really ought to look it up (because it might have been relevant to his jurisdiction and it was fun anyway, something to do with the Hollies), but since he'd already decided to do what I wanted him to do anyway I didn't mind.
Being a barrister is, sadly, not significantly like making love to a beautiful woman. Nor, of course, is it much like Kavanagh QC, Ally McBeal, that dire sitcom Chambers or Rumpole, at least in my field and at my level. Clerks, or whatever it was called, and This Life came a bit closer but avoided going into much detail. Why? Because, 90 percent of the time, it's actually quite dull, from the outside. At least 40 percent of the time it's dull from the inside.
In the end, the main purposes of my existence include being someone for angry High Court Judges to shout at for things that aren't my fault, and for maudlin Circuit Judges, Masters, and Registrars to tell
sad stories of the death of kings anecdotes from their own careers, in a lazy half-hour before lunch.
I deserve every penny that people unaccountably never get around to paying me, I tell you.
I was really cross with someone for not answering the several calls I made to their mobile, or the text message I finally sent them, yesterday. Sadly, said person has now proved to me that I was in fact calling, not to mention SMSing, if that's a word, someone else. Who that may have been I have no idea, nor do I understand how and why the number in my phone address book changed. As I said, I'm an idiot.