Late for the list

Six months in ... 40 years to go ... Junior Junior reviews her first tentative steps towards wigged glory ... Dress notes ... Prospects of starvation 

I've learned a lot in six months at the Bar; surprising, given most of that time has been spent sitting in one of the lists. At the back of a crowded courtroom, I wait for my matter to get on.

"Matter number 8?"

Hang on, am I number 8? I quickly rouse myself and look down at my folder. No, no, I'm not. That's right. My matter is number 574. How silly of me. But not to worry. A few more years and I'll be out of here.

The barrister whose matter is actually number 8 traipses across to the bar table and slumps himself over the lectern. A suit hangs from his limbs like a broken sail, creases like it was ironed with rocks. As with everyone before him, he is here to plead for an adjournment. This is case management at work.

"Registrar, my client really wanted to file her evidence in time, she really did. But the thing is, well ... she's really quite depressed."

Registrar sighs without looking up, a fatigued expression of disappointment partially visible from within the palm in which his face now rests. 

"... and you have evidence ... of your client's ... medical condition?"

The question is not asked in a way that conveys anticipation for the answer.

"No, no I don't. But, like, the thing is, she's really depressed. I mean she's really very sad. And how can I get instructions from someone that's so sad all the time?"

The barrister pauses. "Oh, and I almost forgot. She's only got one eye!"

Registrar inhales slowly. "Matter number 9?"

*   *   *

It's quite easy to tell how green someone is by the cut of their courtroom attire. 

A barrister adorned with immaculate white wig and clean, pressed robes is not an impressive sight. He or she may walk tall while striding towards court, a crisp copy of Ritchie's wedged underneath an arm.

This is because decades of judicial berating are yet to take their toll.

Contrast this with the old breed of barrister - masters of the bar. They do not appear under a wig so much as an unceremonious mass of damp, shredded straw which, by its uncertain angle, appears to have fallen there by accident. It is a sight often complemented by robes bearing a striking resemblance to clothing retrieved from the Titanic. 

Perched over my third long black, I watch one of the old breed begin the march towards court. As light drizzle begins to fall on Phillip Street, he pulls out a ragged, stained handkerchief on which to wipe his glasses.

He hasn't noticed that the junior has forgotten the one folder she was told to bring, or that she is now rapidly scampering back to chambers to fetch it. He doesn't hear the solicitor's incessant mutterings, which presumably concern costs. He marches on, an embodiment of focus and determination.

As I watch, I think to myself: will that be me? Or will I starve? Will I ever be able to afford a subscription to LexisNexis? While the first two questions are mere hyperbole, the answer to the latter remains a firm no. 

I down the last of my coffee and check the time. Nine-thirty. I'm late for the list.