Author: Moobs

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I caught the 6:30 this morning. I was anxious to get to work early as today’s hearing had a very big sum of money turning on it and I wanted to re-re-read my skeleton argument. Sat at my desk having my early-riser breakfast: orange juice and a flapjack from the newsagents (so nutritious!). I resolve to get to bed early tonight.

I meet the solicitors in a cafe opposite the Royal Courts of Justice and we wait for that morning’s celebrity litigant to push through the press of cameras before making a dash for the metal-detecting line ourselves. Then we are winding up the stairs and passages of the Pugin monstrosity; through the “Bear Garden” and on to Masters’ corridor. I have a hearing in front of  Master “X”. The Masters, disappointingly, are not Doctor Who villians. They are, in essence, judges who deal with the procedural aspects of cases. The unrelenting tedium of their workload tends to unhinge them. Most turn into affable eccentrics; some into book-throwing psychopaths. Master “X”, is avuncular and clever – a good draw.

I am trying to get a claim struck out as an abuse of process. We say that the claims now being run should have been included in earlier proceedings before the Employment Tribunal that took place in 1999 and that we shouldn’t, 7 years later, be having to see off essentially the same claim for a second time.
The lead claimant comes up and shakes my hand politely. I spent 2 weeks in 2001 calling him a liar (which the tribunal found he was). The intimacy of cross-examination has convinced him that we are friends and over the many intervening years of his trying to get his fundamentally meritless claims advanced we have developed a sort of jolly style of interaction.

The green light on the wall outside the Master’s room comes on and we all troop in. My opponent and I sit at a table directly opposite the Master. There is a 3 inch “wall” running accross the middle of the desk in case, I suppose, we otherwise try to reach out and hold his hand. I am not tempted to do so. The Master tells us that (owing to some procedural failure in one of the RCJ’s departments the documents that we had lodged on Friday morning are only just with him. He has not had time to do the 2.5 hours of pre-reading we have recommended. The consequence is that if we start today we now won’t finish and we will all have to come back in May. He hints that he would like this to be transferred to a judge. I would quite like that but my clients wouldn’t so we compromise and agree to do nothing today but to all come back in May with a longer listing. I take the solicitors for coffee instead. I have two cups to stave off a feeling my wife describes as being “post-courtal”. Getting ready for any kind of hearing means flooding your body with adrenalin. When a case finishes (or goes off unexpectedly) all that adrenalin vanishes and can leave you feeling headachey and tired. Flooding the system with caffeine fends off that adrenalin crash.

Back in Chambers there is a row going on. We are trying to move to better (but much more expensive) premises. The increased cost means we are not unanimous in our desire to leave. As Chambers consists of 50 self-regarding individuals who argue for a living, rows are intense, bitter and entertaining in the extreme. The emails are so barbed you need gloves to type. Two QCs (senior barristers) are metaphorically bitch-slapping each other. As the circulation of emails is limited, people visit my room to read them over my shoulder. We all know conflict is bad but when it’s this entertaining it is still disappointing when they meet and agree a common position “for the good of Chambers”.

I try to do some paperwork in the afternoon but the absence of a hard deadline finds me surfing the net. I put on some music and try to concentrate. The Beach Boys come on and somehow their chirpy nonsense about “East Coast farmers’ daughters” cheers me up. Then my phone rings. It is P. She is in tears. She is doing a hideous child abuse trial. She is representing the Guardian at Litem. The Guardian is a public servant whose job it is to make sure there is an independent voice in such proceedings. They are supposed to be neutral. P is under pressure because the Guardian wants her to be partisan and the other lawyers are complaining that P is not being neutral enough. The G is insisting that, against advice, certain questions are asked. P asks them, is criticised by the judge for doing so and looks stupid. At the same time she is worried that the kids, one of whom has learning difficulties, are being disbelieved because of skillful and aggressive questioning by a senior barrister involved in the case. P is increasingly convinced the kids are telling the truth and is mortified at the way the trial is going. She pulls the car to the side of the road and just sobs. I want to give her a hug but can’t.

As I fantasise about an early night I get a call from a friend reminding me we are going out to dinner. I work till 6:25 and, as I rise from the desk to go to the restaurant, my phone rings. It is a client (a large airline) with an urgent query. I give some off the cuff advice (I hear my insurer edge onto the window sill) and set off to the restaurant reading a book on Documentary Evidence as I go in order to advise more fully in the morning.

My friend is waiting for me. The evening is not just social: he wants to sack his nanny. As she is about to start maternity leave that is clinically insane. Free advice: Never dismiss a woman who is pregnant, on maternity leave or working reduced hours on her return no matter how many colleagues she murders or how much money she steals. Just don’t. As I specialise in employment law, impromptu advice sessions for friends, relatives and people my Mother has met in coffee shops are an occupational hazard. I try to help with good grace but for the most part pretend to strangers that I am a traffic warden.

My reward is a nice meal and too much booze. This means a late start tomorrow which means deadlines will begin to tighten like a noose. Still 4 more days till the weekend.

Years ago there was a craze for “magic eye pictures“. If you held up a piece of paper covered in apparently random squiggles, coughed, spat, turned around three times and squinted a 3D image would “magically” appear. I could not get it to work and concluded it was a con designed to see if you were stupid enough to pay for a poster covered in random computer noise. Other people, people I trust, claimed to be able to see what I could not.

I work with some extraordinarily clever people. That means that from time to time (in fact more often than I would care to admit) I find myself being slower to understand things than they are. What intrigues me is that sense of having reached your intellectual limit; of seeing something and just not getting it; of having to work hard at something to make it come into focus.

At school I was a decent student and I was ultimately competent enough to end up pursuing post-graduate studies and doing some Law tutoring at a number of universities. I don’t claim to be a dunce. However, I well remember being sat in Additional Mathemetics class in the fifth form at school and realising that as my teacher explained “integration” to me all I was hearing was radio static. For a bit I was able to perform the calculations by learning the stages by rote but shorn of the intellectual grasp of why the formulae worked it all just drifted away from me. It was like I had travelled to the edge of my brain’s cramped little universe and hit the wall of the crystal sphere.

Other things I could learn but would forget. I have learned to read music twice now and if I don’t do it daily it fades away to nothing. Others claim to be able to look at a score and hear the music in their heads. Even at my peak I could only guess the interval and hum one note at a time, one bar a minute.

As the years passed I found this intellect boundary began to trouble me more and more. I took an OU course on Astronomy and Planetary Physics with a view specifically to seeing if I could make myself understand the maths. It was hard work but I was pleased to make any progress. Then we reached the section on Cosmology. I was reading my textbook whilst on holiday and was lumbering through the chapter on the origins of the Universe. The model described involved the Universe inflating out from a tiny singularity. That I understood (at least in its basics). Then a question popped into my head: “why is there a universe at all”? On the surface this is a tired old question. When I have put it to others they think it’s a prelude to some theological debate. It isn’t. It just occurred to me in a flash that there universe need not have existed. What is it doing here? What’s its context? It’s not that I had not posed similiar questions to myself in the abstract before, it’s just that I just suddenly seemed to glimpse its substantive nature. It’s as if I suddenly saw the Magic Eye picture.

When I let that question play around my head it still flat out panics me. I get a feeling like a headache or a reaction to a loud noise. It’s like I nudged through the intellect boundary and found myself falling fast. Sickening and scary.