The Law has been blighted by the invention of the photocopier. Back in the good old days for which all barristers pine (the 1780s in case you were wondering), getting a document copied meant sending it to a copyist who would dip a quill in ink and painstakingly transcribe. No 4000 page bundles in those days. To cope we have had to resort to trolley bags to drag our instructions around. I have a range of them and my current favourite is an enormous and stylish Mandarina Duck one. Before today it had only be used once: to carry home P’s dirty laundry from Scotland.

My client today is the World’s largest Law Firm. That is quite a client to have. I was pleased. They wanted me to represent them by which I mean someone was suing them and they want me as their lawyer. I was most pleased. Anxious to make a good impression I broke out the quality luggage and made my way to their Canary Wharf Skyscraper.

Having been shown into a plush conference suite, I chatted lightly as I unpacked my files. Opening the zip with a flourish I noticed that a pair of P’s knickers had somehow lain hidden in the depths of the bag and were now flopped nonchalantly across the top of my papers. I cast a glance at the clients but they were all filling bone china cups with delicious fresh teas. I could still get away with this. I flicked at the underwear with my hand and it dropped into one of the bag’s recesses and, mercifully, out of sight. I then piled the files onto the table and zipped the bag shut again. I paused to regain my composure and began to set out my advice. I found it unnerving that none of them were looking at me. Instead they were focused on a point about a foot in front of me. I looked at my files nervously. No underwear appeared to be attached. What was it that had so grabbed their attention? Could it, I wondered, be the sturdy and extravagantly curled pubic hair that was sat atop the uppermost file?

I grabbed the file and followed their eyes as the hair slipped from its surface, twirled to the table top and then slid onto their handmade carpet. At that point I didn’t know where to look so I focused on the other file. Well now, what a coincidence! It too was sporting a merry-looking pube. As everyone in the room was thoroughly professional no-one asked me how well I’d got to know the papers. 

On Friday night the perfect storm of work that is presently engulfing me abated for a moment and P and I went to see Cirque De Soleil as guests of a particularly generous client. We followed that with some Italian food and a little wine and staggered home, waxen-faced with tiredness.

I climbed straight into bed and P sat awhile at her PC before creeping up the stairs. “Are you awake?” she whispered. I was, barely, so I lay doggo for fear she might be about to ask me about what colour the curtains in the new house should be or something else I’m ill-equipped to deal with at the best of times.

Cautiously she edged into the darkened  bedroom. My eyes sprang open as I heard a sound that could only really be P crushing my glasses under her heel. “Oh CRAP!” she whispered. She waited to see if I had woken, scooped the bits into her hand and headed for the bathroom with the debris in order to examine the damage. There she was apparently overwhelmed with remorse as I could hear distinctly saying:

“Ha ha I never liked them anyway”.

Where I feel happiest

There are a number of candidates but having forced myself to decide the answer was, until 15 years ago: in bed, at night with a storm rattling the windows. For the last 15 years it’s been much the same but now I am lying spooning with P, one arm draped over her listening to her sleeping breaths as the storm rages.

Things I avoid

(1) Argument By this I mean debate whether it be political, philosophical or ethical. The problem is that I enjoy it way too much. Once we have begun to argue, I simply will not stop until you have accepted my position and renounced the feeble nonsense that you call your own. I am not one for relativism of principle and my overweening sense of self-righteousness is matched with a diabolical relentlessness. Long past 3 am, well past the point you have lost the will to live, I am pursuing you out of the door as you search for a cab, a horse, a bicycle, anything just to get you away. It is not enough to surrender, oh no, I must believe that you believe. I will not be placated. Keep me away from that stuff and we’ll get away fine.

(2) Competitive Games Never break out the Trivial Pursuit when I am in the room. Do not weedle at me until I relent and play Pictionary. When you see me sweating and refusing to play that is the sweat of an alcoholic, 12 years off the bottle, faced with a bottle of cask strength Talisker. It is not that I need to win (though I notice that when I do things run more smoothly for all concerned) it is just that I develop a sense of fairness and propriety that classifies almost any gentle warping of the rules (which I have read and memorised in preparation) as a sin reaching past fratricide in terms of infamy. Indeed fratricide is always a risk when we play games as a family. May the Lord forbid that anyone should have any fun.

(3) Nostalgia There are songs – songs I once loved – that I simply cannot bear to listen to now. They make my heart ache. I feel a welling emptiness into which I gently implode. I become drowsy and confused as if dosed with morphine syrup. C S Lewis thought that powerful longing, induced by music or some other beauty, was the soul longing for God. It overwhelms me so utterly that I have to stay focused on the gravelly future instead; eyes narrowed and walking forward like Lot.

Jobs I wish I done

(1) Cartoonist I was cartoonist for my University newspaper. Not a particularly good one but good enough and reliable when it came to deadlines. As it became more obvious I was heading towards the Law and still more obvious that the I would never be even a scintilla as good as any of those handful of cartoonists that appeared to make a living at it, I put the pens aside. When webcomics took off, I had another look at the situation. I was encouraged to find that most webcomics were appalling bad. Unfunny in a million different ways (900, 000 of them being demonstrated by strips like PvP); either drawn left-handed by right-handed artists or else by people whose artistic talent would not stretch to finger-painting on a good day. Some truly abominable piles of shite seemed to have a baying audience of near-obsessive fans. That’s what I wanted, an army of unthinking moobsophiles ready to buy T-Shirts and to pay for me to fly to Hawaii to be snide to them at conventions. Then I came across Beaver and Steve and snapped the digital artpad in two. James’s strips are amongst the best I have read in any format at any time. I hope he appreciates how good he really is. He is not alone. For a taste of the best have a look at Beardy Rick’s blogroll.

(2) Astronomer I did an Open University course in Astronomy and Planetary Science and haven’t felt so excited by every word I read since R and I found his father’s frankly astonishing collection of pornography when we were 10 (“What is that thing?!!”). However, ultimately I fail to meet the two minimum requirements for the job. First, every time I try to grow a beard it largely congregates under my chin making me look as if I am wearning a ruff woven from red and black pubic hair. Secondly, I am way too stupid at maths (bah).