The law can be a cruel mistress. For every truthful statement, there are a thousand lies. Every victory has to be squeezed out in the face of a dozen losses. And for every afternoon you feel the walls close in, the ghost of Tulkinghorne at your shoulder there exists a glimmer of hope. People, this is a “good news” story, and there isn’t a pussy cat or a fire engine in sight.
Last Friday night, I crossed an item off my “life’s achievements” list. Well, not quite, my outgoing PA did on my behalf.
After almost three years, she left my employ last Friday for a job on the other side of the country. Quietly, I am going to miss that bright smile and quirky sense of humour with my coffee and Age every morning.
Anyway, I got back to chambers late from a tough day. I knew it was late, because the front desk was unmanned, so I trudged upstairs to my office. All I wanted to do was flake out on the couch.
Within moments, I’m supine, eyes closed (but still awake). I’m enjoying the quiet when one of the senior secretarial staff comes to the door.
“Chris, you awake?”
“Yeah”
“You’re missing the farewell drinks. We’re in the muster.”
That catapulted me back into full alertness.
Rubbing my eyes, I drowsily (yawning) come out with “Thanks Annie, I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I’ll bring you some coffee first!”
Cut to a few minutes later: I’m downstairs in the muster, coffee mug in hand, propping myself against the threshold, barely keeping my eyes open. Platitudes and pleasantries were exchanged. Speeches over, small round of applause: Right, now I am going home. I returned to my office, collecting my coat, scarf and briefcase. My PA arrives and raps on the door, gift bag in hand, just as I am about to switch off the light.
“I bought you something to cheer you up.”
“You didn’t have to do that!” I felt slightly guilty to be receiving gifts when she is the one leaving.
“Yeah, I did. You and Q (big boss) could be right pains in the backside some days, but you’ve been wonderful.”
She hands over the bag. It’s a little heavier than I expected.
“Now, I know you’ve got 4 Blues already, so I got you something really special.”
I look over at her uneasily. I know her well enough to say that if she’s qualifying Blue with “really special”, I almost dread to see what she’s come up with.
“Open it!” Her words are laced with the kind of child-like excitement typically reserved for late December.
I oblige. Really special doesn’t cover it, nor does spectacularly jaw-dropping. Inside is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. It’s a bottle of scotch. However, this is not a $35 off-the-shelf drop: it’s a bottle of 30 year-old Speyside fine oak single malt, which I know costs more than her weekly wage.
Silence; dead silence. But it’s not the cavernous and foreboding kind. I’m overwhelmed. I was near tears in fact, not that I was letting on. It’s one of the most singular gestures ever afforded to me. She steps over and embraces me with a peck on the cheek.
“It’s hardly thanks enough.”
“Miss {insert her surname} there is just one more thing that I would like from you.”
She beams, seeing the funny side, because technically she no longer works for me. “Anything”.
“I would be delighted and honoured to have your company on the walk to Flinders Street.”
She smiles and extends her slender hand encased in a black leather glove “My pleasure.”
Now, credit where it’s due, I ‘borrowed’ the title of this blog ‘cos I’m just too f@#$ing lazy. No, that’s a lie. It’s a precise reflection of what I wanted to say, and probably better wording. There’s some French vodka in it for you.
Last Friday night, I crossed an item off my “life’s achievements” list. Well, not quite, my outgoing PA did on my behalf.
After almost three years, she left my employ last Friday for a job on the other side of the country. Quietly, I am going to miss that bright smile and quirky sense of humour with my coffee and Age every morning.
Anyway, I got back to chambers late from a tough day. I knew it was late, because the front desk was unmanned, so I trudged upstairs to my office. All I wanted to do was flake out on the couch.
Within moments, I’m supine, eyes closed (but still awake). I’m enjoying the quiet when one of the senior secretarial staff comes to the door.
“Chris, you awake?”
“Yeah”
“You’re missing the farewell drinks. We’re in the muster.”
That catapulted me back into full alertness.
Rubbing my eyes, I drowsily (yawning) come out with “Thanks Annie, I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I’ll bring you some coffee first!”
Cut to a few minutes later: I’m downstairs in the muster, coffee mug in hand, propping myself against the threshold, barely keeping my eyes open. Platitudes and pleasantries were exchanged. Speeches over, small round of applause: Right, now I am going home. I returned to my office, collecting my coat, scarf and briefcase. My PA arrives and raps on the door, gift bag in hand, just as I am about to switch off the light.
“I bought you something to cheer you up.”
“You didn’t have to do that!” I felt slightly guilty to be receiving gifts when she is the one leaving.
“Yeah, I did. You and Q (big boss) could be right pains in the backside some days, but you’ve been wonderful.”
She hands over the bag. It’s a little heavier than I expected.
“Now, I know you’ve got 4 Blues already, so I got you something really special.”
I look over at her uneasily. I know her well enough to say that if she’s qualifying Blue with “really special”, I almost dread to see what she’s come up with.
“Open it!” Her words are laced with the kind of child-like excitement typically reserved for late December.
I oblige. Really special doesn’t cover it, nor does spectacularly jaw-dropping. Inside is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. It’s a bottle of scotch. However, this is not a $35 off-the-shelf drop: it’s a bottle of 30 year-old Speyside fine oak single malt, which I know costs more than her weekly wage.
Silence; dead silence. But it’s not the cavernous and foreboding kind. I’m overwhelmed. I was near tears in fact, not that I was letting on. It’s one of the most singular gestures ever afforded to me. She steps over and embraces me with a peck on the cheek.
“It’s hardly thanks enough.”
“Miss {insert her surname} there is just one more thing that I would like from you.”
She beams, seeing the funny side, because technically she no longer works for me. “Anything”.
“I would be delighted and honoured to have your company on the walk to Flinders Street.”
She smiles and extends her slender hand encased in a black leather glove “My pleasure.”
Now, credit where it’s due, I ‘borrowed’ the title of this blog ‘cos I’m just too f@#$ing lazy. No, that’s a lie. It’s a precise reflection of what I wanted to say, and probably better wording. There’s some French vodka in it for you.