Unwanted Affection and Mixed Abhorrence

          All morning I sat at my desk frantic with anticipation. I finally sent a reply to Annabell last night, carefully crafted to create a perfect blend of capricious curiosity as to her current condition.

            She had not replied.

            I was supposed to be working but could not. Perhaps the wording had been wrong. Perhaps she had wanted more… affection. Maybe I needed to demonstrate my continuing commitment.

            I still had keys to our flat… I thought… and knew I shouldn’t. But I did.

 

*

 

            I slipped quietly in just before six this evening, a little in advance of her return. A few of my things were still about providing the perfect alibi. I was glad to note no sign of others. No new tenant; no new... other. The photos that we’d displayed about the flat were all gone or turned face down. No doubt she didn’t want the reminders of what we’d had.

            She returned a little before seven. She was a little surprised to see me sitting in the living room but no alarmed. She responded to me coolly. I had hoped perhaps for a hug or… something. She established the purpose of my return and accepted it unemotionally.

            “Perhaps we could go for a drink before I leave?” I suggested.

            “Alright,” she said, and my heart skipped a beat, “but it’s not a date, Tom. You do understand that?”

            I kicked my heart back into life. “Of course,” I replied, “I know,” I added, more quietly.

           

*

 

            In the end we decided to have dinner at a local Pizza Express. She spoke exclusively of her job: office politics, successful cases, fascinating points of law. She asked me my views on them occasionally and I responded with forced interest. She did not ask me about my life.

            I tried to switch the conversation several times, in vain. I wanted something more emotional from the meeting. How could we pass from lust and love into passive dissection of a lawyer’s day?

            “Damn, Annabell!” I blurted.

            “What?” She asked, and waited silently.

            “Nothing… I suppose,” I said, after a few moments.

            She paused, sighed slightly and then addressed herself to me, setting herself straight in her chair before she began. “Tom, you’re just worried you’ll never do better than me.” She paused again though from her expression I could see this was not an invitation to reply. “You’re wrong, Tom. You will do better, I know you will.”

There was a flash of kindness in her eyes now, the emotion I so desperately sought. I paused awkwardly, caught between unwanted affection and mixed abhorrence at the presumptions.

She looked about briefly. Dinner was over, we’d paid. It was time to go home.

“You can sleep on the couch Tom.”

Ultra Dense Metal Ball on Endless Still Ocean

“We must believe in free will – we have no choice.” – Isaac Bashevis Singer

 

          “Take it away! Oh fucking hell mate, quick… oh… I’m gonna be sick.”

            “And here I was thinking you’d appreciate a bit o’ bacon… dripping with lardy fat…”

            “Oh God…”

            Five minutes later Ed returned from the bathroom and sat down looking thoroughly rotten.

            “You’re not in Australia,” I observed.

            “That’s true,” he allowed.

            “How did you get home?”

            “I’m not sure. But I do know it involved a bus in Westbourne Park at one point.” He looked to the heavens, reflectively, for a moment. “Where the hell is Westbourne Park?”

 

*

 

            In the mid afternoon I got a text from Annabell: ‘Hi! How are you doing?’

            What the hell does that mean?

            Is she just being polite or does it mean something more? What if it means more? What if she wants me back? Perhaps she’s just being proud, holding back a little but seeking something. But then… there’s isn’t a ‘kiss’ at the end. What does that mean?

            By the time Ed had returned to normality, in late afternoon, I still hadn’t made up my mind how to reply.

            “At least I don’t look keen,” I said.

            “Oh yeah, you look really serene. You’re a fucking solid steel ultra dense ball of impassive metal on an everlasting and perfectly still ocean, you.”

            I shook my head patiently. “She doesn’t know that.”

            “But you do.”

            “So?”

            “So why do you care mate? She’s long gone, a nice mess in a worker - the man’s conservative.”*

            A pause followed while I caught up. It became silently known, by the briefest of nods between us, that I had understood. That is: I understood his cryptic meaning though I may not have taken his plain meaning.

 

* nice mess = anagram of nice = cien; in a worker = in ‘ant’; man’s = his; conservative = tory; Altogether = ‘Ancient History’.

The Feet of a Human Being

            With nothing else to do I gave Robin a call. We went to the football, Reading v Blackburn. It was a pretty dull game in the end, Reading just aren’t entertaining. I actually would’ve prepared to go watch an Ebbsfleet game. At least I own part of that club!

            As I sat amongst the tame and dry crowd I wondered about the fan mentality. It seems to me that half of the fun of these things is the shared experience. At a passionate club you can stand amongst wild fans who never sit down and never stop singing, that’s an experience in itself. On the other hand, if you go to Reading, since it's in the Premiership, or Chelsea, to take a better example - they're just as boring at the moment, the only social benefit you get is to brag about having gone to the match to anyone that’ll listen in the following week, as though it somehow demonstrates your worth. You certainly don’t turn up for the entertainment.

            It’s all a little accidental anyway. What determines your choice of team? Nearest club? Nearest premiership club? Parent’s club? The club of the England striker when you were 9? Whichever it is you’re then stuck with it, whether it’s a good choice or not. And why? Why can’t you switch allegiance? Because it’s frowned upon. It’s not the done thing. A big taboo. So there you sit, wearing the same colours as everyone around you, cheering a bunch of human beings for everything they do with their feet. It’s so illogical. It’s pure surrender to the social machine.

            In some ways there are parallels between one’s club and one’s girlfriend. They are at least a partially accidental choice and once the novelty fades you stick by them out of ill thought out loyalty.

            On the other hand, in football, you tend to get more respect for sticking by a low level team; loyalty trumps quality. Not so with girls…

Camels and Mules

          A typical insight into the last day of a criminal trial, a junior barrister’s perspective:

            08:30 – Have a conference early in the morning to discuss the case. Point out some clever points that your leader can make in his closing speech.

            10:30 – Listen to the Judge recount every boring detail of the entire case thus far. Struggle to stay awake.

            12:30 – Listen to various barristers making earnest speeches apparently from the heart.

            12:48 – Listen to your leader use all of your own brilliant points.

            13:25 – Listen to your leader take the credit for all of your own brilliant points over lunch with the others. Sit in respectful silence.

            14:00 – Incredulously watch the jury acquit some of the Defendants but not others, apparently at random.

            15:24 – Sit in the robing room watching all the barristers count up their various spread bet earnings. They each bet on various different outcomes and events throughout the trial and settle at the end.

            16:02 – Get to the pub and watch all these grown men get drunk on self-satisfaction and wilful ignorance of reality or meaning.

            17:56 – Listen to your leader practically offer a dowry of camels and mules if you’ll take his step daughter.

 

            The worst thing is. I’m no better, deep inside. I feel myself hurtling towards these people on a runaway train of social conformity.

Melancholy Ed

          “How was your day today Tom?” Ed asked as I walked in this evening. I paused and gaped at him. “Seriously?” he added.

            “Er… it was fine thanks.”

            “Great! Why don’t you sit down and I’ll grab us a beer.”

            “Sure.” I was concerned. Ed wasn’t being cheeky, as usual, sneakily being friendly for some ulterior purpose. Rather, there was something a little melancholy in him. I felt rather uncomfortable.

            “What’s it like?” he asked when we’d sat down, “what’s it like knowing where you stand every day? Having respect from those around you and doing a good, solid job?”

            I frowned at him, suspicious. Yet he was serious. “It’s satisfying,” I answered. “It feels good to build a secure future and know that one day I’ll be able to buy a house and support a family in a decent manner.”

            “You’re doing pretty well, aren’t you mate?”

            I didn’t know what to say.

            “I just… thought I should say it,” he said, “I know I haven’t done, but there it is: I’m impressed, you’re really making it in life.”

            “What’s the matter Ed?”

            “Nothing, honestly. I’m just feeling a little stagnated or something right now. Maybe I’ll move to Canada.”

            I frowned again. Again I saw he was serious. I could see him processing the idea in his mind. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I’d certainly miss him, and I’d have to find a place of my own, but at least his crazy distractions would be gone from my life and I’d be able to make progress in earnest.

            Overall, though, I don’t want him to go. I’m glad, even a little flattered, that he’s finally recognised my achievements. This is only reasonable, it’s what I deserve, yet I find it a little unsettling coming from Ed.

Need Sleep

          Insanely busy today. In court all day and had to write a commercial advice tonight. Need sleep.

Lovely

          This morning I sat quietly to the side in the robing room (where barrister dress up in their gowns and wigs) pretending to read my book while listening to the common talk. I call it common in earnest. They were discussing the vulgar topic of money in an open and obscene fashion, each comparing notes on hours of completed work to be billed to the legal services commission.

            “You have to make the most of it you know. Those bastards will stop you earning anything if you’re honest with them. Have to keep them on their toes, occasionally bill a 25 hour day, if you know what I mean. Honestly, you need it just to survive; I very nearly missed out on the big 200 last year!” He meant £200,000. I raised my eyebrow briefly before restraining it lest I be spotted.

            I never think about money myself, if I can help it. I had to the other day, and I almost regret posting about it. I can hear you saying I can ignore it because I’ve got it, so I’ve no need to worry. Perhaps. It’s important for the sake of image. Image must be preserved both by the employment of money and by treating it as an invisible inconvenience at the same time. These things are important.

 

*

 

            At lunch Timothy asked me for my thoughts on ‘Fi’.

            “She’s lovely,” I replied, weakly.

            “Yes yes. She is. Perhaps you’d like to see her again?” he suggested. “She’s mentioned you a couple of times,” he added.

            “Er…” what could I say? “That would be lovely.”

            “Splendid!” He smiled warmly and patted my hand with his, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief in the other hand.

Would a Can of Wood Can You or Would it Only Can Wood?

“Freedom to act as we wish is not only compatible with determinism but requires it: we need things to behave predictably to have any chance of realising the simplest intention.” – Norman Bacrac

 

          I woke up at 8.00am this morning just to get to Sunday lunch at Timothy’s house. He lives out in Salisbury at the weekend. Maybe one day I’ll be able to have one property in the country and one in the town…

            In the end I arrived early before any of the other guests and had to sit through a rather awkward four way conversation where Timothy’s wife and step daughter asked me all sorts of obvious and ordinary questions. I used to feel perfectly at ease in these situations but now inappropriate images of the past few months keep jumping into my head at all the wrong moments and cause me to stutter or look vacantly drugged up.

            At an appropriate break Timothy’s wife gave him a Significant Look and they departed, leaving me alone with Fiona, her daughter. Fiona was pretty in an upper class cliché sort of way. She had straight perfectly conditioned blonde hair cut into a choppy layered style. I’d guess she was about 22, and this was important. She looked to be the type of girl that could keep a tidy enough figure at that age, but I fear that even now there’ll be a couple of love handles available.

            She asked me about sport, a simple pretext to introduce her love of riding. It turns out she makes a living by riding, teaching riding and tutoring some local posh children in a few GCSE subjects. Amazingly she also has a flat in London, in Baron’s Court ‘for when I simply have to do a spot of shopping!’

            Despite some obviously shallow qualities Fiona turned out to be a fairly interesting conversationalist. I asked her about her life and whether she happened to be satisfied with her lot.

            “The wonderful thing about my life, Tom, is that I can change it at any point. Nothing keeps me tied down. I can give up tutoring or riding any time. I can live in London or Salisbury. With my degree from Cambridge I can walk into any job anywhere anytime, no problem; I’m free.”

            “But are you? Would you do any of these things?”

            “Does it matter? It only matters that I can.”

            Timothy and his wife returned with a number of new guests at this point. The formalities were disposed of and Timothy came to join us with a senior barrister I didn’t know. He seemed to think it important we meet. The barrister in question gave Fiona and me an appraising look.

            “What were you two discussing when we came in, it looked absorbing.”

            “We were just talking about Fiona’s flat in London,” I said.

            “Actually,” Fiona averred, “Tom was asking me to play dice with my life.”

            “Really?” the barrister said.

            “Yes. Let me ask you: would you walk back out of the door and go to Scotland for the week?”

            “Well of course not.”

            Fiona turned back to me, “isn’t that the point?” she asked.

            “Perhaps,” I answered. I turned to the barrister and asked, “would it bother you if I told you that you were forbidden from, or incapable of, going to Scotland right now?”

            “Certainly not. Why would it bother me?”

            “Alright, suppose I said you weren’t allowed to leave this house until dinner had concluded and our gracious host, Timothy, permitted you to? Suppose, further, that I forbade you from saying anything remarkable, offensive, disruptive, controversial or simply unusual for the next few hours. Doesn’t it bother you in the least?”

            “No. I plan to operate within those parameters in any case.”

            “I think it would bother me,” I said. “I’m not sure.”

            The rest of lunch proceeded unremarkably. I got a grip and behaved myself. Timothy stopped me on my way out.

            “I hope you enjoyed yourself Tom, thanks very much for coming.”

            “No problem, yeah, it was great.”

            “I know Fiona will have appreciated your company,” he said, then paused. “She doesn’t usually have young company at these things,” he added.

            “Yes, I can imagine.”

            Pause.

            “Did you two get along?”

            “Just fine, thank you.”

            “Yes. I see. Are you… that is… well, don’t let me keep you! Thanks again!”

Civilised Evolved Society

          “Let’s go Evans!” Ed said, striding into the living room wearing some highly irreligious t-shirt.

            “Where?”

            “The next adventure! I’m all set.” He paused and surveyed the scene around me. I had surrounded myself with pieces of paper from the case. I was trying to organise them into some sort of sensible order so I could collate them into different chronological folders.

            “As you might perceive, I’m a little busy.”

            “Story of the last couple of weeks mate. You’re no fun anymore.”

            “Fun doesn’t pay bills…”

            “…apparently.”

            “It doesn’t.”

            “You’re just getting paid to become one of society’s zombies. This is no way to live,” he spread his arms, gesticulating at all my papers.

            “Actually, being a barrister is one of the freest professions one can have. I’m always doing different things with different people in different places.”

            “And yet when you’re in your own home, where you should be able to do anything, all you can do is organise pieces of paper.”

            “We all have to earn a living.”

            “Yes, but how long before every weekend becomes an exercise in paper swimming? How long before there’s nothing more at all? For God's sake man, it's a bank holiday weekend!”

            “It won’t happen.”

            Ed gave up and went out. He had made me think though. Can I be so sure it won’t happen? But so what if it does? This is what people do in life: they work, earn money and procreate. It’s civilised evolved society. At some stage we’ve all got to grow up, we can’t be free spirits forever.

Tedious, Coded

          Today was one of the more tedious days of my career. To catch the aforementioned tree-surgeon fakers the police had conducted weeks of surveillance. This comprised hours of taped phone calls and meaningless video. The crooks had been smart enough to discuss their activities in code. It was my job to go through all this material and make a schedule setting out everything of any note whatsoever. It’s almost eleven at night now and I’m about ready to finish for the night. It’s going to be a miserable weekend!

Splendid but not Comparable

          This morning I was busy working on a case in the library when I received a pleasant surprise. A senior barrister in Chambers called Timothy came in to see me. He explained that he had a complicated deception case in the crown court next week and he needed a junior to help him. I was to be the man! Apparently my clerks had noticed my dedication to the cause this week and recommended me! It just goes to show: treat life with the proper respect and it shall reward you. Perhaps Robin and my mother were right…

            Timothy explained the case to me. It sounded interesting enough. A gang had pretended to be tree surgeons and had approached various little old ladies and fleeced them for professional advice and treatment of the trees in their properties. Of course, in reality, the gang knew nothing about it and were just chainsawing down random trees.

            At the end of our chat Timothy stood to leave and looked across at me with the confident ease that all senior barristers seem to possess. “Why don’t you come over to my house for Sunday lunch this weekend Tom?”

            “Well of course,” I replied, “I’d be honoured.”

            “Excellent. We’ll have a splendid day. You can meet my wife’s daughter, she’s about your age… Yes. Splendid.” He nodded his head sagely for a moment and then retired.

 

*

 

            On the way back to the tube station this evening I happened to bump into Alice at Holborn on her way home from Central St. Martin’s. She looked delighted to see me and we agreed to go for a drink around the corner at a bar called Sway.

            We chatted away over a glass of wine and she spoke vividly about her art. She’s a student at the College and specialises in painting. I noticed, as she described her latest efforts to me, that she had flecks of red paint scattered amongst her careless strawberry blonde hair. She noticed me looking at her hair and shyly tucked it away behind her ear before continuing. I smiled absently and listened.

            We came to a hiatus in the conversation and Alice suddenly drew breath and looked at me. “I just wanted to ask,” she said, “how’s Ed doing?”

            I was sharply disappointed. We’d had a delightful drink together talking about her passions. She’d come alive. Now she looked nervous, ill at ease and insecure. And all because of Ed, even despite his treatment of her!

            “He’s fine,” I replied, gruffly and dismissively. “More importantly, how are you doing?”

            She sighed slightly. “I’m single.” She gazed away for a moment. “I just can’t seem to find the right man. None of them quite seem…”

            “Good enough?”

            “…comparable.”

            I left her shortly after this exchange. I felt angry at her and belligerent towards Ed. I decided to go to bed swiftly and avoid him altogether. He was not in and so I accomplished my plan easily and gladly.

What've You Got to Lose?

          Working hard again today, I’m proud to say. It feels good to get some cases under my belt. Everything’s getting back on track.

            Scheherazade came in to see me today. “If I already asked a guy out on a date, then can I ask him again?” were her first words to me.

            “I suppose it rather depends on the circumstances,” I replied.

            “I asked him, he ignored the invitation. But then he carried on texting me in a slightly flirtatious way. So can I ask him again?”

            “Maybe he never got the first text…”

            “No, he got it. I’m sure of it. I don’t understand men.”

            “Ha!”

            “Seriously.”

            “Ask him again. What’ve you got to lose?”

Knuckle Down

            I met Robin for lunch again today. He’s delighted that I’m working hard again. I must admit he reassured me.

            I realised I’ve spent so much time speculating on the purpose of life, and such like, that I’ve become a little melodramatic. Sometimes the best thing to do is just to knuckle down and get on with it.

Not Lacking in Principle

            Neurolinguistic Programming (NLP) seems like a lot of dangerous fun. I’ve been reading a book on it. If it’s half as successful as it claims to be then it’s difficult to see why all barristers don’t use it. It’s all about putting ideas into people’s heads and persuading them to think in one manner or another. And that’s my job!

            Today I face an unrepresented opponent in an expensive case about trusts, mortgages and fake relationships (usual fare). The fat middle aged stupid woman I faced wanted to negotiate with me and I let her. We went into conference together and at first she was very aggressive. However, I listened closely to her and discovered she was a ‘visual’ person (everyone, according to NLP, relates either visually, spatially, aurally or digitally in words). Then I watched her and began to mirror her body language perfectly. Before long I began reflecting her ideas back at her in her own language and style, but with my spin on it. She found herself agreeing with me, one small step at a time, and after half an hour she agreed to my offer of settlement.

            Unethical?

            Well, we all have free will don’t we? We’re all free to act as we choose and none of those actions is influenced by anything but our own minds.

            Right?

Admissions

            “So, I forgot to ask, what happened to you on Friday night then Tom?” Ed had finally emerged from bed. I’d been up for a while finishing some of my work in the living room.

            “I had a mountain of work to get through.”

            “Really? So you didn’t abandon me for some girl then?”

            “How did you…”

            “You did! Haha, and I was only guessing. Who is she?”

            “Okay, I’ll admit, I was with Scheherazade, but not like that.”

            “You admit it do you?”

            “Well… yes.”

            “What’s to admit? What are you worried about?”

            “It’s not that I’m worried. It’s just…”

            “Poor man’s Annabell.”

            “Yes! I mean… not exactly.”

            “Stop being a prick and tap that ass.”

 

*

 

            This afternoon Ed got bored and came to me with demands that we restart the adventuring.

            “Sorry Ed. I’ve just got too much on at the moment.” I replied.

            “That’s a lame excuse.”

            “It’s not an excuse, it’s the truth. We can’t all go off on random jaunts all the time.”

            “You mean you won’t. You can; we’ve all got free will.”

            “Fine. I won’t. It’s all an illusion anyway…”

Finally a Decent Filthy Lady Experience

“God is not willing to do everything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory which belongs to us.” – Niccolo Machiavelli.

 

          My mum called again this morning, at 8.00am. She still thinks everyone goes to church every Sunday morning.

            She has finally accepted that I’m not with Annabell and I can’t win her back. She is unimpressed.

            “Where’ve you been for the last week then?”

            “I told you, mum, I went to Turkey.”

            “Oh yes. I bet you did. Dirty place. Just like you to take off for a place like that when everything important and decent carries on back here without you. It’s no wonder she left you.”

            “Thanks mum.”

            “And that’s another thing! While you’ve been swanning about amongst those filthy people you’ve only pushed her further away.”

            “She doesn’t even know I went there.”

            “No! And I bet you want to keep it that way! She’d hardly trust you again if she found out would she? Imagine going to such a place when there’s decent honest respectable work to be had back here. Don’t think your old parents will always be able to pay for you in life!”

            “I won’t.”

            There was a pause. My mother caught her breath before continuing.

            “What do you have to say for yourself then? When will you start sending home money and making your parents proud by bringing home a nice young lady?”

            “I’ll try my best mum.”

            “Hmmmm… not really good enough is it? Try harder.”

            “Okay. But… don’t you think there are more important things in life?”

            “Don’t be silly. Like what?”

            “Er… I don’t know. Life? Death? Experience?”

            Another pause.

            “I do wish you wouldn’t talk like this Tommy. You can be ever so morbid sometimes and I do worry.”

            “Sorry mum. I promise I’ll sort it all out.”