Liadnan

I have about five half-drafted real posts, but I can't be bothered at the moment. However, a note to the London-based that I shall be ( around this Saturday )

Apparently my profession requires I have ethics. Who knew?

So, after four hours of ludicrous and not so ludicrous problems (in my very first trial my client departed drastically from the evidence in his witness statement when in the box and I had very little idea what to do) we all went and got drunk and exchanged gossip. What fun. Hah. I always swore I would abjure socialising with lawyers - far too easy to be drawn into a tiny little world. Though the unfavourable opinions of one of the QCs from the set where I did my first six [trained, basically] of the subsequent absorption merger of that set into a mega-set were quite interesting.

Now I am too drunk to cook. Heigh ho. When my liver fails I shall blame Continuing Professional Development.

.. and then he drinks another gin drink. And then another gin drink. And then another gin drink. And then starts feeling miserable about Everything.

Has anyone ever investigated precisely how it is that Gin does this?

But doesn't have a hangover and spends the next evening on 12 star Metaxa, a wonderful intoxicant that should be more widely appreciated.

In other news, via John and Belle the depressing proof that Bono is still kind of a cock. Depressing because I'd kind of rediscovered (old) U2 recently. Now I'm reminded how exactly he managed to reach quite so far up my nose.

Ah well.

Ian McDonald has a livejournal. And pretty much all of you who might be interested in this already knew this, and had subscribed. Can you explain why, precisely, no one saw fit to tell me?

And there's a new Lindsey Davis. I managed to stick to my moratorium, but my suspicion, that Greece was pretty much the only bit of Vespasian's empire she hadn't touched yet and was therefore the likely new Abroad setting, has proved correct.

Back from hols, of which more sometime, possibly. Right at the moment I'm trying to deal with an atrocious hangover courtesy of Joff and Harry's wedding, before going out on the piss with Fairymelusine.

I've nothing to say about the Indian Ocean earthquake that hasn't been said already. List of aid organisations here: if you can, and haven't already, use it. And see also the The South-East Asia Earthquake and Tsunami Blog.

London Review of Books Subscriber Evening
"Come and do your Christmas (or other) book shopping in the peace and tranquility of the London Review Bookshop without the plebs general public, with [free] wine and nibbles and with 10% discount on all books."

Bastards.

• Number of books bought: err. Some. Many. Lots.
• Number of Christmas presents bought: err One. Probably.
• Number of glasses of wine drunk: err.

V. bad. Oh, hang on, my life is a different film.

In other news, can someone answer me a question that has been causing some puzzlement for the last week: what in the name of buggery are the strange lights dancing in the sky down the end of Oxford Street every night? Anyone inclined to refer back to The Incident of the Green Lights on Canary Wharf would do well to remember that I was actually right, notwithstanding that accusations of absinthe poisoning were not entirely groundless.

Never place the wine glass between where your right hand belongs on the keyboard and the external mouse.

My Chambers had a long lunch yesterday. From 1 to 7.15 (and probably longer, that's just when I gave up). Involving 18 bottles of good champagne. There are now 24 of us, of whom three weren't present and three weren't drinking. Not all of the others had more than a glass. And one of the silks kept cadging rollups off me.

This seems a proper way to deal with ructions.

I headed for Rob and Steph's on leaving but realised on my way that I was in no state to go anywhere: diverted towards home from Bond Street and collapsed on bed about 8.30. This is probably why I don't have a hangover.

9th October, being the Saturday closest to my birthday, I shall be getting drunk in the Pembroke in Primrose Hill.If you want to come and see me being morose do, if you don't, don't.

It's only half nine and I'm home and I already know that I'm going to be passed out on the sofa in half an hour. Arase.

Oh dear, I seem to have brought sherry (pronounced shér, of course) in cold blood. I think this may be some kind of lifechanging watershed moment.

Proms last Friday: Martin Neary doing the Bach toccata & fugue on the newly rebuilt Albert Hall organ (rather poorly, I thought, but it's good to hear the organ again, and working properly for the first time in my lifetime), BBC SO and Chorus with Elgar's The Music Makers (new to me, impressive piece solidly performed) and Holst Planets (started weak but came on form fairly quickly). I intended to go again tonight, for Dvorák (no I can't be bothered to find the code for r-with-a-thingy-on-top) Dmitrij but I'm not really in the mood for 190 minutes of unfamiliar opera.