Justinian managed to acquire the exclusive rights to the serialisation of The Secret Diaries of The Hon. I.D.F. Callinan AC QC. The High Court judge, playright and novellist records the day-by-day, behind-the-scenes dramas at the court as well as letting us take a peek at the first draft of his new novel, The Cannelloni Conspiracy. 

Diary entry, May 20, 2005

A productive hour as I make what in all modesty seems to me a most encouraging start on my new novel, The Cannelloni Conspiracy – A Recipe for Murder. Prof. Myers at Central Queensland University Press is very keen on this one, coming hard as it does on Appointment at Amalfi.

It will surpass the others, being as it is a drama about a secret and priceless recipe for cannelloni that is stolen from a noble Italian family. What with various twists and turns of the plot ... anyway I don’t want to give too much away at this point in time.

I must of necessity put down my pen as Registrar Doogan has called me to a meeting of the court's Facilities and Resources Committee of which I am the chairman, or the "Tub Chair" as Kirby insists on calling me.

The Chief Justice is anxious to seek funding for removal of a wall that separates the female women's bathroom facilities from the men's.

The women’s facility hasn’t been used since (Bloody) Mary Gaudron retired from the court and I agree with the Chief that it is a nonsense to keep the space as a freestanding female ablution facility when strictly speaking there are no ladies on our bench.

Also, and I can say this without fear of contradiction, the plan over which I must say Gleeson has poured a considerable amount of his own personal time, will give much more space to the male bathroom area. Each judge can then have a private urinal and even, as Gummow has suggested, individual bidets (although personally you won’t be catching me on one of those repulsive Continental contraptions).

Kirby is in the minority, and much as I respect him I firmly believe he is in the wrong on this one. He thinks the female judge’s bathroom should be retained as a stand alone and freestanding resource for the court, in the belief that another women could be appointed in the not too distant future. There was quite a bit of snickering from Dyson about that one.

My personal argument is that there shouldn’t have been provision for a female judge’s bathroom in the first place and I’m surprised the architect was paid his fee for putting one in there. Mary could have used the judges’ toilets, she merely had to ask permission of the Chairman of the High Court Judges’ Facilities and Resources Committee (Me) and I think I can speak for most of us without fear of contradiction when I say that, after we had discussed it properly, no one would have turned a hair or blanched.

But Kirby has come up with authority from the French Conseil d’Etat that says even if all judges are of a male hue, the court under the European Convention on Human Rights and Equal Opportunity (I think) is required to provide a bathroom for lady judges.

Further, he says, there should be space for a disabled bathroom. “But, Michael,” we all say, “none of us are disabled”.

“Gummow is”, he says, “just look at the pathetic number of speeches he’s contributed to society at large...”

Bill thought that was very unfair because he’s had to look after an unwell aunty in Neutral Bay and hasn’t had a moment to even think of himself, let alone speeches.

I thought it best to adjourn the committee for a later day because things seemed to be taking on an unnecessarily personal tone.

Subsequently Kirby sought to make it up to me by sending his associate around with a plate of delicious buns.

Can I share with you the opening stanzas of my new novel? Feedback is not essential. 

The Cannelloni Conspiracy
A Recipe for Murder

[Part One]

BY IAN CALLINAN (AC)

“Sam Splayd eased his impressive bulk back into the sumptuous vinyl comfort of his Jason recliner-rocker and carefully took his grandfather’s pocket watch out from his green silk waistcoat. It was 2.30pm. At least thirty minutes had passed since his last profiterole. It was going to be a long afternoon.

As the dappled autumnal sunlight spattered across his desk in a shapely tortellini pattern, Splayd reflected on the objects strewn before him – each one a memento of his personal acumen and good taste. The 17th century Sicilian mezzaluna with handles of human bone. Now that was a gruesome case, the elegant epicurean mused. And yet, there was the unbridled, unexpected pleasure of getting to know the Contessa.

Splayd re-adjusted his enormous buttocks in the rocker, fondly remembering the exact contour of the Contessa’s breasts. They were like summer melone. Brown, ripe, perhaps even over-ripe, but luscious with promise nonetheless. Just waiting to be plucked. Oh, to be prosciutto to her melone! He was a lucky man! Engaged fully in his early afternoon reverie, Splayd barely noticed the slight tap, tap, tap on his office door.

It was certainly a woman’s hand, although it might also have been an airline steward’s. But why would an airline steward be seeking the services of Sam Splayd, Culinary Detective?”

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