A beastly time

Collapse of the world order ... Yet, the annual round of law firm clerkship applications proceeds unabated ... Zoomathons without tasty sandwiches ... The pitches ... The critical questions ... The psychometric tests ... The online interviews ... Barely Legal jumps through hoops to land a poorly paid plum job 

Coventry Catheral by John Piper

In November 1940, the Luftwaffe destroyed Coventry Cathedral. The English Ministry of Information sent out one of their official artists, John Piper, to sketch the ruins. 

Piper arrived to a vertigo of destruction. Dazed by the bodies and rubble, he lurched through old Coventry town, unable to paint.  

Then, beside the cathedral, he spotted an undamaged building. On its door was a brass plate: 'Solicitor's Office'. Piper's father was a lawyer and he would have been one himself, if he hadn't traded in writs for canvas. 

Piper walked into the familiar space, and he later recalled:

"There was a girl tapping away at a typewriter, in a seat by an open window, as if nothing had happened.

I said: Good morning. It's a beastly time, isn't it'?" 

A beastly time it was. And yet, up and down the country, little law firms were pressing on. 

As they are today: a beastly virus and a once-in-a-century economic collapse - still, the firms are undeterred.

Take summer clerkships, for example. Other businesses have fired all their staff, or frozen new hires. Yet for the noble firms, nothing's changed - they're still courting hordes of innocent law students with promises of grad-jobs and a vacation of low-wage labour. 

As one of those innocent law students, I would know. This year, it's my time to be initiated into the great ritual of the clerkship application. 

It's the same old baroque procedure, but with a coronavirus flavour. 

By tradition, each firm sends some of their as-yet undamaged graduates onto campus, where they spruik their "unique" working culture and lure gullible proto-clerks. 

To be socially distant, the great lunchtime "meet and greets" were replaced with endless Zoomathons. This spelt an end to a staple in the law student's diet - the catering tray of tasty sandwiches. 

Next came a relentless battery of application forms, CVs and cover letters. Every separate firm makes applications due on the same day - which I presume is because they are basically a cabal. 

Being my organised self, I decided to tackle the whole shebang on the due date.

Eight or nine cover letters and I think I will throw up if I ever again write something like: 

"The vibrant inclusive culture at Firm X excites me ..."

"I am deeply interested in commercial law ..." 

"Deals are my passion ..." 

"I am attracted to Firm Y's deep commitment to social justice, shown in your sponsorship of the lower north shore chapter of the Australian Country Women's Association ..."

Then there were the "critical" questions, posed as part of each firm's application form: 

"What do you think will be the greatest challenge for lawyers of the coming decade?" 

Probably getting a job. Or maybe not getting underpaid. Or how about the complete collapse of the global rules-based order? 

"Tell us about a time you showed a sense of 'commerciality'."

When I haggled down the taxi driver on my way to Bangkok airport last summer break. 

"What's an achievement that you're proud of?" 

Somehow writing all of these clerkship applications in the span of six hours.

Then came the psychometric tests, which try to figure out if you're a psychopath.

It's unclear whether the psychos are automatically weeded out - or automatically rewarded with a job. 

Some of the tests have you look at pictures of people pulling strange faces, and then ask you to describe what emotion they're feeling. 

Other questions are no more than video games. I had to rotate shapes and fit them into patterns, drag little balls through mazes, and play Tetris.

 They're not the questions you'd be asked at a meeting of the Mensa Club. But then, law firms definitely aren't the Mensa Club...

Finally came the interviews. 

Gone is the theatre of in-person interviewing. Instead of creeping, dressed in an ill-fitting new suit, into a looming corporate suite, the whole thing is done online. 

I fronted up wearing a shirt and jacket on top - and pyjama pants down the bottom, just out of camera-view.

I wasn't the only one putting in less effort than normal. Instead of a live person on the other end of the Zoom line, most of the firms used pre-recorded questions. 

So there I was, in my cold bedroom, while a video of a gleaming HR person asked me what was a time I showed teamwork? And what was a time I worked well under pressure? And what are my values? 

I spoke my answers into the online ether. They'll probably be judged by a voice recognition programme, rather than a real human. 

I hope the algorithm likes me enough to give me a job.