Gothic Acting

          “I’ve got an idea!” said Ed today, to my immediate trepidation. “We should pretend to be vampires and see if we can entice anyone into meeting us for a voluntary conversion to eternal life and blood lust!” He was referring to a song we heard last weekend, Before I’m Dead, by the Kidney Theives.

            “I don’t know about that, Ed. It sounds a little dangerous, in the potentially illegal sense.”

            “Aw, come on Tom!” said Sharona, “It’ll be awesome! You can have a lot of fun with the dark side you know? Remember that night in New Orleans?”

            “Alright… But on another note…”

            We had been sort of sharing adventures lately and chaotically overlapping and looping them around each other. There wasn’t enough order in it for my liking so I suggested that the philosophy professor’s adventure should be mine while this vampire thing could be Ed’s. He was happy enough with this suggestion and I was relieved at having a lesser part in this ridiculous vampire idea.

            “Okay,” said Ed, “so how does one go about entrapping a would-be vampire in the modern age?”

            “The same way one does anything else,” I replied, “Myspace and Facebook”

            Ed and Sharona spent the next three hours designing a site for Ed’s alter-ego, the vampire Blake Locke.

            “What do we do about the profile picture?” Sharona asked, eventually. “No offence, Ed, but despite your admittedly gothic edge we can hardly take a picture of you or anyone will be able to see you’re not really a vampire.”

            “I’ll draw him as one,” I said. I’ve drawn all the other pictures for this site but Ed and Sharona don’t know about that, since they’ve never yet seen it. They were a bit surprised but allowed me to give it a go.

             By the end of the afternoon I have to admit they’d created a most convincing site, full of blackness and vampire speak. The picture I drew fitted in perfectly and Sharona typed in some nonsense about how Ed’s image couldn’t be recorded by camera.

            “And now,” said Ed, “all we need to do is suck some poor bastard in! Mwah ha ha ha ha!”

            “Very funny,” I said.

            We scouted out some potential targets and ended up trawling through a menagerie of goth culture and art. Some of these people go to extraordinary lengths to later their image, in reality and digitally, to make the most provoking images of themselves. We added them all as friends and within no time at all we had 25 ‘friends’. A few of them sent innocent and depressingly banal messages of welcome to their community. They plainly saw through the situation (obviously) and were glad to have another actor to interact with.

            One girl, though, apparently aged 17, began asking a number of rather silly questions. When were you born? Who sired you? What’s your real name? That sort of thing.

            “I believe we have our girl,” Ed said.

            It was plain that this would be a slow burner of an adventure; nothing would’ve occurred tonight. Indeed time was required to develop the situation.

 

*

 

            We went out to see Nicole in Soho again. Sharona had organised it; she was my friend so I was glad to see her; and, Ed wanted to shag her. So it was an easy decision. Once we arrived Nicole revealed to Sharona that she’d been chosen to sing a part for an upcoming advertising campaign. She starts tomorrow morning! We were all very excited and I bought a round to celebrate.

            The rest of the evening was spent watching Ed try successively less and less subtle moves on Nicole, ever drunker on each occasion. Nicole loved it but really she just enjoys controlling that kind of situation. I’ve never known her have a boyfriend though occasionally she dates. She needs to stay in control. She had clearly decided that Ed was just fine as a suitor, but nothing more, so she tantalised him and kept him hanging like a naughty puppy. It was good to see Ed getting a taste of his own medicine.

Wise Silences

          Many years ago, at school, I was not one of the cool kids.

            Henry Ellacott was.

            “Didn’t expect to see you here Evans,” he said, walking into the waiting room at court this morning. He was my opponent. “Is someone suing you?”

            I am ashamed to admit I was slightly flustered. “No,” I replied, indignantly, “I’m here for a case,” and I told him the name of the case.

            “Ah! That’s my case. When’s your barrister turning up?”

            “What? I am the barrister.”

            “Oh! Really? I just assumed you were a solicitor or something. Really? You’re a barrister?”

            “Yes.”

            “Very well. At least it’s not your fault you’ve got such an absurd case then! I’m quite sure you’ve told them to give up and they’ve sent you along anyway. Yes yes, I quite understand. These solicitors do sometimes have a hard time understanding the law don’t they?”

            “I advised my solicitors to pursue this point.”

            “Oh.”

            “I suggested that they might succeed on it.”

            “Really? But that’s nonsense. I’ve been doing cases like this up and down the land in front of all types of courts and I’ve never yet lost on this point. Honestly, I wouldn’t bother if I were you.”

            “Well,” I said, “since we’re here now we might as well see what the judge has to say.”

            “Fair enough, I don’t suppose the judge will trouble me to actually speak anyway.”

 

*

 

            A short while later we went into court. My opponent sat quietly with a smug face while I briefly outlined the case.

            “Right, Mr Ellacott, I’d like to hear from you first in answer to Mr Evans’ point at paragraph four of his skeleton argument.”

            “Skeleton Argument?”

            “Yes, you’ll find it at partition seven of the trial bundle.”

            “Ah, I’m terribly sorry, yes, here it is. I hadn’t realised my Learned Friend had prepared a skeleton. Very well. But we don’t really need to trouble with that do we? I mean, this will only take a minute.”

            “Mr Ellacott this hearing is listed for two hours, and if I wish to trouble you with a point I will do so.”

            “But Sir, with all due respect, this need not take so long, it is only a simple point, if I could just explain…”

            “You may not. Please turn to Mr Evans’ skeleton argument and answer the point.”

            The hearing proceeded in this fashion for an hour or so by which time Henry’s face was a picture of exasperation. I had hardly been called on to say a word while he had been battered over and over again with the points contained in my written argument. At this stage the judge took note of one of his points and turned to me to ask me for my submissions on it. I began to answer the question but was interrupted almost immediately.

            “No no no!” said Henry, “you don’t understand. The judge was trying to ask you a different question altogether.”

            He began to attempt to re-frame the judge’s question for me.

            “Mr Ellacott, your arrogance exasperates me. I am perfectly capable of asking my own questions, thank you, and unlike you, Mr Evans appears to have a perfectly capable grasp of their meaning.”

           

*

 

            Sure enough, though at length, I won the hearing having barely spoken. I had a work experience boy with me who was clearly marvelling at my skill, though his youthful innocence blinded him to my marginal part in affairs.

            Henry walked past us on his way out. “That judge had no clue!” he said, “I’ll appeal him and then he’ll look the fool!”

            “Sometimes,” said my solicitor when Henry had gone, “cases are won on what is not said, rather than on what is.”

            Wise words, no doubt.

            Despite my win owing a great deal to the judge and my opponent’s attitude, I still feel good. A win is a win and the buck always stops with the barrister. Thus I get the blame if I lose and the credit if I win, regardless of how the case had been set up and prepared by those who came before me. Winning is therefore important, and satisfying when it occurs. Today, on account of this win, and a few others lately, I feel I might even be worthy of Sharona.

Perpetual Proliferation

          At work this morning I had to laugh off my hangover. I was getting through cases, what more do they want?

            I met Robin for lunch today and discussed dry legal cases. He’s suddenly become so incredibly dull to me. I can’t really explain it. I suppose in some ways he even reminds me slightly of Annabell, living and breathing work. This perpetual proliferation of legal anecdotes, spliced with occasional grumbles about government gambits, is truly taxing on the soul.

            At some stage I should give up these adventures, and probably Ed too, if I’ve any sense, but I hope to God I never become as boring as Robin. As boring as I used to be, I suspect.

Biodh An Deoch

          Tonight we went to the philosophy convention.

            There was some discussion of the recent battleground between science and religion. The usual disputes over evolution erupted, with scientists decrying the idiocy of denying the most beautiful theory on the planet and theologists claiming it as a device of God (for these were philosophers – too smart to fully deny evolution they were forced into deism).

            After the discussion several of us retired to the pub for further metaphysical discussions. A group of about seven of us formed in the corner of the pub. Discussions on the earlier topics continued fervently, fuelled by the regular drinking calls of Ed. One of the bearded professors declared that he hadn’t had such fluid and splendid discussions since the days of Philip Carr-Gomm, the druid, in the basements of China Town’s finest Chinese restaurants almost forty years before.

            Ed asked this particular professor for his views on music. The professor replied by declaring it the highest medium of aesthetics, thereby sparking outrage from his colleagues who denied that there could even be such a thing. Twenty minutes later Ed was able to speak again and he asked the professor for his favourite song.

            “‘Biodh An Deoch Seo ‘N Laimh Mo Ruin’ by Julie Fowlis,” he said.

            “What the fuck’s that?” Ed asked, with total disregard for the propriety of his companions. The professor laughed jovially, enjoying a rare release from the sober social mores of his usual environment.

            “The drink would be in my love’s hand.”

            “I’ll drink to that,” Ed replied, and clinked his glass into the professor’s very nearly spilling both drinks all over the place.

            The professor broke into song to demonstrate his chosen piece of music. He howled like drowning cat and turned several heads in the pub. Despite this Ed actually encouraged him, the sadistic bastard, and after a moment Sharona started clapping along, though her encouragement was rather more earnest.

            At the end Sharona gave him a hug and thanked him for his performance. He was overcome with sudden shyness as her contact, electric as it must be to any man, shattered his temporary suspension of customary behaviour and left him exposed, in his mind, to future ridicule and raised eyebrows.

            “Thank you,” he said, “honestly. It’s been lovely talking to you chaps, and… er… chapesses, but I must be getting home to my wife now.”

            The others left shortly afterwards, bringing to an end this unusual evening.

            On another note, I’m glad to report that Ed hasn’t brought up our discussion on Sunday night again. He seems to be getting on well enough with Sharona at that. Maybe it was just an odd moment.

Run of the Mill

          As they go, today was a fairly run of the mill day. I worked hard all day then played football for Robin’s five-a-side football team this evening.

            In my bored moments at work I got to thinking about the last song we heard, up on Hampstead Heath: Philosophy. I decided to find a philosophy convention and spent some time online looking up philosophy groups. In the end I discovered a monthly meet-up on the last Wednesday of each month. I told the others about this evening and they agreed, so it’s on for tomorrow night.

It's Not Enough

          Sharona had an audition for some of the work Nicole pushed her way today. I met up with her after work in Leicester Square. I saw her coming from afar and suddenly my feelings for her snapped into sharp relief. She was a Vision, an angel gliding toward me. I couldn’t let her go; I couldn’t let Ed drive her away; I couldn’t let Annabell drive us apart.

            Her audition had been a success. She’s on the company’s books now for miscellaneous singing parts. We toasted her future.

            “What happened to the last girl, Tom? Annabell?”

            “Eh?” I said, hearing perfectly, but needing more time to stop reeling.

            “How long were you with her?”

            “Er… a while. Two years maybe,” I lied.

            “Do you ever miss her?”

            “No!” I said, too hastily.

            “I see. You’ll take your time.” She looked at me seriously for a moment. “But you’ll make the right choice.”

            We gazed at one another, and though the bar was full it could’ve been empty. Eventually she smiled, confidently. She leant across the table and kissed me, passionately. I skipped a heartbeat. She pulled away slightly but held her face close to mine. Gently she caressed my cheek with the back of her hand. I closed my eyes and she kissed me again. I was stunned.

            “Is it too much?” she asked.

            “No,” I replied, “it’s not enough.”

To Hell with Ed.

To Hell with Annabell.

The Kite

“Everyone believes himself a priori to be perfectly free, even in his individual actions, and thinks that at every moment he can commence another manner of life… But a posteriori, through experience, he finds to his astonishment that he is not free, but subjected to necessity, that in spite of all his resolutions and reflections he does not change his conduct, and that from the beginning of his life to the end of it, he must carry out the very character which he himself condemns.” – Arthur Schopenhauer.

 

 

          “What do you think of Alice?” I asked Sharona this morning.

            “We’ll never be sisters, I’m afraid!” she said.

            “Why not?” I was slightly surprised. “Don’t you think she’s lovely?”

            Sharona raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

            “Well then?”

            “It just wouldn’t work.”

           

*

 

            The three of us started talking about the other Brighton-inspired adventure – Naïve by the Kooks.

            “I always thought they were singing ‘she knows that I’m not from the law school’.” I said.

            “You egocentric bastard,” said Ed.

            We listened to the song carefully. Sharona liked the line ‘Hold on to your kite’ so we decided to go buy a kite and walk up to Hampstead Heath.

 

*

 

            It was surprisingly easy to find a kite and in no time at all we were up there trying to make it fly. Ed wouldn’t allow anyone else on the controls so Sharona and I grabbed the thing and ran out over the heath, trying to catch the wind. Eventually it leapt out of ours hands in a gust and soared into the sky.

            It was a beautiful warm day and so Sharona and I lay down in the grass by Ed’s side whilst he tried tricks in the sky with the kite. Each time he achieved one trick he moved on and tried something more complex. Sharona and I gazed up at the kite entranced as it cut one figure after another in the blue.

            “It’s beautiful,” said Sharona.

            “It’s random,” I replied.

            “No,” said Ed, “it’s controlled by these strings. I make those patterns.”

            “Those strings, and the wind,” said Sharona, “but those gusts of wind are beyond your control, Ed.”

            “Really though,” I said, “the movements are ordained by the kite’s shape, and that never changes. It’s destined to move that way.”

            A man was running up the hill towards us. As he arrived by our side he paused, panting. He had his headphones in.

            “Excuse me!” shouted Ed.

            “Can I help you?” the man asked.

            “What’re you listening to?”

            “Philosophy, by Ben Folds. Why?”

            “Just curious, thanks!”

 

*

 

            Back at the home we had a relaxing evening but Ed kept glancing at me in an odd fashion. He seemed agitated. Eventually I went into my room, leaving Sharona and Ed alone in the living room. Ed followed me quickly.

            “Mate,” he said, “I’m not sure about all this.”

            “Meaning what?”

            “Meaning her, Sharona.”

            “What about her?”

            “I just don’t think it’s working out, us all hanging out.”

            “Ed, what are you talking about? She’s great!” 

            “Yes, but she is an adventure, she’s not an adventurer. She’s not one of us, Tom.”

            I frowned. I couldn’t think of anything to say. My stomach knotted. I realised I really didn’t want to risk things with Sharona. I was just beginning to let her into my system; I couldn’t lose her now. I had to have more time to work out if… things could work out.

Ed watched me thinking and then walked away.

You Know Where They Take the Dead People, Right?

 

          Last Saturday night in Brighton, when we ran from the bar, I committed the last song playing to memory. It was ‘Hip Hop is Dead’ by Nas. This would create Ed’s next song-venture. We discussed it this morning and nothing obvious occurred. We listened carefully to the lyrics until Sharona spoke.

            “’Bodies in the morgue lie together’ – let’s use that line!” she said.

            “How do you propose we do that?” I asked.

            “We’ll find a morgue and Ed can go lie next to a body.”

            “Yeah,” I replied, “how hard can that be?”

            “That’s the spirit, Evans! I’m in,” said Ed.

            We started online, looking for a morgue but it’s surprisingly difficult. You can’t just type ‘morgue London’ into Google. We were drawing a total blank on it. Then I remembered that Robin used to work in the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead, to earn money for his legal training, so I gave him a call. He agreed to meet us at the Roebuck pub opposite the hospital, but I didn’t tell him why.

            We were just leaving when Alice rang the doorbell. As I saw her I remembered with considerable embarrassment that I’d texted her last night and agreed to meet for lunch today. I’ve been trying to stay in touch with her since Ed dumped her; she’s such a sweet girl. I’d forgotten all about her though.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ed asked, not amused to see her. I restrained him and explained. He shook his head in apparent pity at me. “You can’t leave well alone, can you Evans? So be it.”

Reluctantly he agreed that she could join us but in the awkwardness no one actually really explained what we were doing to her, and no one introduced her to Sharona who ended up putting on a brave display and doing it herself. Alice reacted to Sharona’s introduction shyly but politely.

 

*

 

Over a splendid lunch at the Roebuck Ed began questioning Robin.

“So you worked over there?”

“That’s true, many years ago now.”

“But you remember the place? You remember the layout?”

“I was just working in an administrative role.”

“Yes, but you know where they take dead people, right?”

Ever the master of tact, Ed. Robin became extremely reluctant at this stage and I tried to explain with some cock and bull story about Ed needing to describe the inside of a real morgue to his school kids! Can you imagine? It was the most transparent lie and Ed could hardly keep a straight face. Alice looked slightly concerned by this point.

            Robin didn’t like it at all but nonetheless, after lunch, he took us into the hospital and helped us find the morgue. We dodged a couple of doctors on the way in, pretending to be on our way elsewhere, with the elsewheres supplied by Robin. It was actually a very well lit place and not half so much like a horror film as might be suspected!

            We found a side room full of liquids and scalpels and decided to take a closer look. Ed told Alice and Robin to keep guard outside and make sure no one caught them. Neither of them looked at all impressed.

            Once inside Sharona looked at home. She wandered about lightly touching objects with fascination. Suddenly Ed yanked open a big metal door. Inside, amazingly, was a dead body. I froze, uncertain of what to do at the sight. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a dead body. Ed on the other hand didn’t appear in the least concerned. Worse, he actually managed to find space on the metal surface to sit himself down next to it.

            “What the hell are you doing?” I whispered, hoarsely.

            “Oh calm down,” he replied, in ordinary tones.

            Sharona walked around the other side of the surface and placed her hand, lightly, on the dead man’s hair. “Lie down,” she commanded Ed. He looked around at her and raised an eyebrow. He looked down at the body and for a moment hesitated. Then he did as he was told and lay down, sideways, alongside the body.

            “Guys,” I started, “I’m not sure about this at all. Maybe we’re taking this thing just a little too far.”

            “Sod that Evans,” said Ed, “just whip out your phone and take a picture before it’s too late!”

            “What, and create evidence of this insanity?”

            “Do it, Tom,” said Sharona.

            I started. There was an odd lilt in her tone. She looked altered somehow, almost high. Reluctantly I took out my phone and took a quick snap.

            “Now get off and let’s get the hell out of here!”

 

*

 

            Back outside the room Alice and Robin were gone. In silence we stalked uncomfortably out of the hospital. No words seemed appropriate.

            “What have we done?” I said, once we exited the place. No one replied.

            Alice sent me a text message shortly later.

            ‘Thanks for lunch. It was… unusual. x’

            Back home in the early evening I found Ed at the computer.

            “Let’s see what’s next,” he said.

            “Don’t you think we’ve done enough?” I asked.

            “You’ll get over it.”

            He brought up itunes with all our songs on it and typed ‘dead’ into the search box. Up came ‘Before I’m Dead’ by the Kidney Thieves.

            “It’s off the soundtrack to that vampire film isn’t it?” he said. “Just so long as it doesn’t involve morgues – maybe you’re right Evans, perhaps we shouldn’t go back there. Might get caught next time…”

 

Weakly Jarred

 

          I had an all day employment conference today. My client was some high ranking manager in a big European retail company. Some guy that ranked even higher than her had apparently been bullying her for being a woman. I couldn’t make up my mind about the case. On the one hand it was clear she’d been intentionally left out of meetings and overlooked for promotions and raises, but on the other hand she was whinging about some ridiculous moments that she seemed to think were appalling transgressions of her personal dignity.

            She gave a presentation once, and at the end the guy had the cheek to state, in front of others, that while he liked one of the ideas he wasn’t so keen on the main one. As if! How could he! And in front of others! And then, on another time, he met her in the corridor and told her she didn’t have time for breaks, she should be at her desk. Shocking! And then, on another time, he called her a ‘silly so-and-so’! And then, on another time…

            It lasted all day but towards the middle of the afternoon the company contacted my solicitor and made a very surprising offer at a higher level than my valuation of the case. I had a long think and asked some more questions, but I couldn’t find any reason for the inflated offer other than a desire to make my client sign a confidentiality agreement preventing the matter being reported to any third party. It made sense and I told her to sign on the dotted line.

            A good day’s work, and I’ve never known so much about ‘marketing and product development’.

           

*

 

            I invited Sharona to join me after work with some friends from Chambers (Scheherazade was away, fortunately). As we walked about meeting them one at a time I was apparently introducing Sharona as ‘a blues singer from New Orleans’.

            After a while she took me aside. “You can just call me Sharona, you know.”

            I was thrown, and then jarred as I saw my error. “Sorry,” I said, weakly. “How about Mircalla instead?” I added.

            She had the kindness of heart to smile and so we returned to the others.

 

Northwich

          There’s no romance killer like a tedious day’s work.

            I was sent to Northwich Magistrates Court this morning to deal with an offence against the Town and Police Clauses Act 1847. For those of you less familiar with this important act, it includes provisions against people being found drunk in a public place.

            Yes: this is an offence. So watch out.

            And for those of you less familiar with the important town of Northwich, it’s in Cheshire, just south of Manchester. To get there entails a three and a half hour train journey from London with a change at Stockport. It had to be some kind of joke by my clerks, further revenge for my late absenteeism. I will have to work harder to return to their good books.

            As though all this were not bad enough, the court didn’t have time to hear my grave and weighty matter this morning and so postponed it to this afternoon. I was therefore stuck in Northwich with nothing to do all morning!

            In the afternoon the trial began in earnest. I ruthlessly cross-examined the police officer on his observations of my client. How had he been able to establish the man’s drunkenness? ‘Is it not possible that his breath smelt of alcoholic medication?’ ‘Did you not realise he was hard of hearing so that when you asked him to walk in a straight line he thought you were inviting him to take some more wine?’ ‘I mean: some wine, not more, of course.’

            He was convicted and fined £20. A worthwhile day, without doubt, and one which you, the tax payer, can feel proud of.

            So the case finally ended late afternoon but I still had a four hour journey to get back home to the others. Ed and Sharona greeted me upon my return with enthusiasm born of thumb twiddling. I was not in the mood. I made up an excuse that I had a bit of work to do and came online to write this. And now, I’m going to bed.

Nicole

          I spent the day today fretting over an impossible commercial property case. Those things can get so complicated. People just can’t stick to straightforward leases, they have complicate matters and create property management companies. It’s appalling. I was relieved to get away to the other this evening.

            Sharona, Ed and I met Nicole in Soho at a pub. Sharona and Nicole immediately hit it off and did what girls do best: they discussed us men in barely audible tones before eventually challenging us to a game of pool.

            After a (very short) while it became apparent that Ed had taken a bit of a liking to Nicole. It is true that she’s pretty, but a bit edgy for my tastes. Since I last saw her she’s dyed her hair red and black (she was blonde last time I saw her) and has a crazy slanted fringe slashing across her face.

            “Where’ve you been hiding her?” Ed asked me as we went to buy a round of drinks.

            On our return Ed sidled up to her and started some kind of silly playground style duel of teasing as though there were still 12 years old.

            “I bet you can’t make that shot.”

            “Why, because I’m a girl?”

            “It is a handicap, but perhaps if I just reach around here and give you a bit of help…”

            “Or perhaps you can keep your hands to yourself. That or have your knuckles cracked by this cue.”

            “Feisty! I like it.”

            Etc.

Nicole was entertained enough and strung him along. In time Ed went to the bathroom and I went to get another round of drinks. I could see the girls from my spot at the bar. They were giggling amongst themselves. I’d unleashed a monster.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, on my return.

They wouldn’t say; thus the evening was a success.

 

By the end of the evening it transpired that Nicole could possibly get Sharona a bit of freelance singing work in the advertising trade. Sharona loved the idea and I must admit it sounded sensible.

We said our goodbyes and began to walk back to the tube.

“That was a success then!” I said, “But the mission was to find you sisters in the plural.”

“Why would anyone ever need any more than Nicole?” Ed asked, slurring his words slightly.

Platonic Love

          I met Sharona and Ed for lunch today to take a break from working in the Temple. We talked about the Sisters venture.

            “Okay,” I said, “what are the options?”

            “Er… let’s see,” Ed replied, “Annabell? Scheherazade?” He was certainly being a prick.

            “Yeah, why not Alice, or Jane while we’re at it?”

            “Okay, do you guys actually know any girls you haven’t screwed?” Sharona asked.

            “Er…”

            “Oh, I know!” I said. “There’s this girl, Nicole, a good friend of mine who lives in Soho. You’ll really like her, she does graphic design for television.”

            And so it was sorted. We’re all meeting tomorrow night.

Shamelessly Preventing Justice

          Today I represented a man accused of Grooming, an offence under the Sexual Offences Act 2003 which usually entails a dodgy old man spending too much time with a young boy or girl with intent to take that relationship further. Not pleasant.

            I met the man in the lobby of the magistrates court in which he was due to appear. He was absolutely repulsive. He flaked dandruff everywhere and poisoned the air around himself. The sheer stink of the man was unbelievable, and that’s not counting his breath. I had to have a conference with him and I nearly died. He had a horrible habit of leaning in whenever he wanted to say something. I developed a symmetrical habit of moving away and twisting, as though to stare pensively out of the room.

            Like so many of these freaks I’ve encountered before, he entirely failed to appreciate the circumstances in which he found himself. He wouldn’t comment sensibly on the allegations against at all. Instead, he repeatedly told me what a tragedy it was that British Rail no longer sent steam trains running along the tracks for him to watch. He lamented that it just wasn’t the seventies anymore.

            In the end I managed to persuade the prosecutor to accept a guilty plea to harassment instead of grooming, which rather saved his bacon and prevented registration on the sex offenders register. I’m not sure how proud I am of that. But still, it’s my job.

            I told Sharona all about it when I got home this evening.

            “It’s amazing,” she said, “you’re amazing. I could never do that. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I wouldn’t want to, just that I couldn’t. Maybe I could come watch you sometime, see you in action?”

            “I’m not sure about that.”

            “Please! Come on! I bet you look amazing in that wig and gown. I bet you’re all sexy and dominating in the court room.”

            “He’s not,” said Ed. “He’s just as much a loser there as anywhere else.” He’d spoken with slight irritation and I felt it was out of turn and unnecessary. Nonetheless I bit my tongue and only frowned slightly.

            “We’ll see,” I said.

            “While you’ve been pricking about shamelessly preventing justice we’ve had all day to get to know one another a little better eh Sharona?”

            I wasn’t entirely sure what he was trying to pull here.

            “Don’t you ever have classes to teach?”

            “Sure, it happens.”

Feigned Altruism

          Banging on the door: my first sensation of the day. I opened my eyes and saw chaos around me. I thought I was sober last night; I was wrong. My perception was relative to Ed’s state, hence my confusion. We ended up playing drinking games into the night which was surely a critical error. Ed had finished the night sleeping at the bottom of the double bed I shared with Sharona. We were inside it, in an advanced state of undress despite Ed’s presence. I couldn’t recall playing strip poker… but it’s just possible…

            The banging on the door was the cleaners. They wanted us out unless we were prepared to pay for another night. We gathered ourselves up quickly and opened the door. The cleaners, who turned out to also be the owners, were aghast. The room was destroyed and Ed was still half made up. They kicked us out in short order.

            Ed and Sharona fell out of the place staggering and laughing. I followed sheepishly, having settled the bill with a healthy tip. We made it to the nearest diner to collect ourselves.

            We ordered a fry up each to fight the hangovers. Half way through Ed actually threw up on the floor under the table. He was hacking loudly but all the staff were momentarily out of sight. Various customers began to take notice, anxious as they balanced their feigned altruism, duty to the diner and voyeuristic curiosity. In the end nobody did anything and Ed simply returned to finishing off his breakfast as though nothing had happened.