Christian Yorke

The trial ended horribly for the enemy. The reasons are somewhat technical, but involved an adverse Court of Appeal decision (well two actually) from an earlier (but related) action. The million quid they had expected from us (ie the client) was up in smoke and boy did that hurt.

We (for the purpose of this post “we” should be taken as inter-changeable with “I”, “us” or “the client”) knew that the enemy was beaten, but that didn’t stop us putting the enemy’s solicitor in the box for a final kicking last Friday. I know that will sound harsh to some, but believe me, he had it coming.

By Monday morning he had been sacked from the case and the enemy was on his knees; every single part of their case had been lost or abandoned. The day was spent hammering out the terms of settlement that were then scrutinised by a Judge on Tuesday. The precise terms remain confidential. However, I can tell you that, in the dying moments of defeat, we made the other side read a statement to the Court (that we had written) in a final act of humiliation.

Life is a mean business. On this occasion I sincerely believe that we achieved a just outcome. I acted for a defendant who had no choice but to respond to a claim for millions. Throughout the action we tried repeatedly to negotiate a settlement, but the other side were hell bent on dragging the client to trial.

The surprising thing is that almost as soon as it ended, even though the process had been exhausting, the whole thing seemed like a nasty dream. Back in the office my desk is already collapsing under the weight of similar disputes. One after the other after the other; and so it goes on. The weight of responsibility, the sheer pressure and high stakes is transforming me into something that I am currently unable to adequately describe.

Until next time, please be nice to each other…

Some of us dressed down for the office today because the media had put eight million Londoners in fear of their lives with predictions of mass riots, rape and hangings. I’m told that even the authoritative “One Show”  interviewed a lady pensioner/fiscal protester next to a seven foot mannequin dressed in a three piece suit with a noose round its neck.

I set off for work in my Belstaff and jeans with fists clenched, hoping that a thug with a belly full of scrumpy and nothing else to do wouldn’t mistake me for a wicked plutocrat. By the time I got to Holborn I had nine missed calls from friends and family as though they feared that I was facing certain death.

They needn’t have worried. The streets were quiet. People were quietly going about their business. The sun was shining. That is until I set off home.

As I trudged down the escalator at Piccadilly Circus tube station I heard the chanting. A chorus of male voices inciting people to join their cause and put their hands in the air if they were pissed. There was a sense of menace. The chanting grew louder and I began to make out words amongst the animal shrieks. The clearest voice was screaming something like, “Tottenham, Tottenham we’re goin ta Wemberrleee!” As he repeated his chant I noticed that he was singing the words; the chant actually had a tune and the singer’s pals started to join in. I looked round and there were twenty likely lads with their tits out swinging their England tops around their heads barging their way through the crowd. I then remembered the World Cup qualifier against Ukraine.

After having had nothing to report about the so-called protestors I was glad that I’d at least bumped into a stampede of honest-to-goodness salt of the earth boys. To a man they were absolutely snotted, each sporting a Rolex Daytona watch to go with their sovereign rings and chunky necklaces (they always seem to like their jewellery) as they bonded aggressively en route to “New” Wembley.

Thanks lads, you made the day special after all!

My secretary has been missing for seven working days. I have been away skiing for five of those days, and whilst I know how mice like to play, my holiday only explains part of her absence. This has got me thinking.

Since January this year her infrequent visits to my office (to explain why she has been unable to “get to” any of her daily tasks) have involved presenting a growing list of dates when she will be in late, home early or absent altogether. Her reasons range from the evergreen “…but me boilers bust…” and “…I’m waitin’ for a man…” to the more creative osteopathy appointments, foot ailments, vertigo, cat related trauma, fear of heavy rain and an online gaming addiction.

The last time I remember her being in work on time, my spies inform me that she spent forty five minutes sobbing in the toilet before bribing a co-worker to tell me that she had to leave. To be fair, although no reason was offered, I thought that this one might be legit because the little lamb had left both of her sausage and egg McMuffins untouched on her desk to stink the building out. A sacrifice indeed.

All of this is fine. No problem. I have developed a coping strategy. I now retreat into a trance and try to piece together my recent skiing holiday in Verbier. For one reason or another this is not an easy task. However, subsequent blogs will attempt to report the key incidents and, naturally, all names will be changed for reasons of security and decency.

Today was remarkable because I was more tired than at any point in the past twelve months, during which phase I have been barely awake, even in my brightest moments.

On the journey to work I felt as though a large hand was squeezing my brain, shutting me down. The warm bed and hot shower were still in my mind despite the cold, grey drizzle ruining my clothes and skin on the walk to the station. On arrival (after a long wait due to rain and the cold) I had to clamber over a suitcase, and then over its owner, to get a seat where I remained squashed and sodden en route to London town.

I remember fishing Crime and Punishment from my rucksack; I even opened it, but reading was impossible as I passed out intermittently. I ended up clutching it like a bible across my chest as The Prodigy blasted out of my neighbour’s ears. I didn’t complain because I could not keep my eyes open. I zoned out for unknown periods, pushed over the edge by the rickety-rackety tracks, the clickety-clack of laptops and the rustle of free papers that seem to be everywhere these days.

The struggle to keep my eyes open left my vision blurred and although I caught what could only have been my reflection in the black window I hardly recognised the damaged features. At times I was uncertain about what was real and what was my nightmare (that I can’t bring myself to share with you just yet).

Oh yes, and to top it all off I felt nauseous and dizzy, as though I had been woken from deep but restless sleep. And the worst part, the biggest joke, was how my lack of worthwhile sleep left me so edgy. This harsh conflict distracted me until the wheels screamed, louder even than my neighbour’s shrieking ears, and I realised that no amount of sleep, no lie-ins, early nights or afternoon naps were going to remedy this deep exhaustion. As I now reflect on the day I have to accept that, for me, sleep just punctuates the days; helps to stop my life being an endless weekday with no end and a forgotten beginning.

Nevertheless, once my train arrived I battled through the zig-zag swarms in the leaking station, pushing through the turnstiles like a zombie because there were still twelve hours of work to tackle befroe I could repeat the process and struggle home.

Think I’ll book a holiday tomorrow. If I remember.