To celebrate my imminent departure from these hallowed shores, I shall be in the Pembroke, just over the railway bridge into Primrose Hill, next Thursday evening, the 11th. Drop by if you can/feel like it/whatever.
(ETA: it's not intended to be a big thing and I shall be back in London regularly, so don't worry if you can't make it.)
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.
I was supposed to accomplish things this weekend. Specifically, to spend a great deal of time on finishing off something I'm supposed to be writing, and face up to my accounts.
Instead, I've faffed, drunk, and rehung a door (finally discovering as I did that the reason why it had been sticking for the whole of the three and a half years I've been living here was that the upper hinge was buggered). And read a lot. And danced around the flat to Kirsty MacColl...
.. 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.
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.
You see, there sare reasons to love my chambers. They know how to drink, for a start. And the aftermath, weaving around Cambridge Circus while a hard -core commercial barrister tries to convince a rickshaw rider to take him to Islington is worth any amount of strife.
You wouldn't believe how l,ong it took me to write that. Or what my head is going to feel like tomorrow. Yet I am cunning and booked myself out tomorrow morning.
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
plebsgeneral public, with [free] wine and nibbles and with 10% discount on all books."
- 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.
To those of you under 30 I have some bad news to impart. The day after your 30th birthday you will wake up with the worst hangover of your life. You think it's merely an aberration, for obvious reasons. But it isn't. You have lost the ability to drink and wake up fresh and rosy the next morning.
You have also lost the ability, but not the desire, to go out and have fun on a Friday night. It will take you at least three years before this fact finally permeates your thick skull.
There are exceptions of course. The inimitable Eurotrash springs to mind.
I'm not one of them and will be very unhappy tomorrow morning.
Must find neurofen before going to bed.
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.
To Oxford last night (apologies to Olympia, Tara, Kate, and Kim but I wouldn't have had time to see any of youse anyway) for the launch party for the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography: posh party with speeches in Schools followed by pissup in Freuds.
I'll write more about the DNB later, perhaps, but for the moment my thoughts are limited to the following: (1) Neurofen.
Fell asleep on the Citylink on the way back, man shook my shoulder. "Where do you want to get off?"
"Fnargleblargleoh Gloucester Green will do."
"Um, we're on our way to London."
"Oh, hang on, that's where I live isn't it. OK, Baker Street."
I haven't lived in Oxford for almost exactly five years.
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.