DAY 232: Incredible

December 7th, 2017 § 0 comments

Ages ago, I started getting fascinated by the law, reading textbooks on tort and cases and so on; and (I was helping a friend with exams) studying old exam papers; in which things happened like:

‘On 31 December 2014, Jez was delivering some boxes of dental equipment to various addresses in Midshire. He was accompanied by his 18-year-old nephew, Lionel, who sometimes used to join Jez on his days off from college to keep him company. It was getting late in the afternoon, and Jez still had two deliveries to make. Lionel was keen to get home in order to go out that evening to a party. He, therefore, suggested to Jez that he use a short-cut, which involved driving down a short length of road restricted to use by buses and taxis only. Jez at first hesitated but, encouraged by Lionel, Jez agreed to do so. Halfway along the road Jez, who was driving too fast, lost control

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of the van and collided with a bus coming the opposite way. Lionel, who was not wearing a seatbelt, was thrown forward into the windscreen, which shattered. He suffered serious cuts to his face and now wishes to bring an action to recover damages for his injuries.’

What fun! Which cases did you have to remember were involved so as to decide whether Jez and Lionel could somehow escape the consequences of their folly and negligence, and carry on delivering dental equipment in Midshire without being banned as they deserved? I loved studying it; and I loved it even more ten years later when, getting serious, I took a course in Refugee Law, watching the Home Secretary getting clobbered for her failure to observe the Refugee Convention as it applied to A.H. or M.M. and trying to see how it might apply to P.Q. Needless to say, readers, I passed with flying colours (you can read some of my works from the period in the margin if you can be bothered).

Did I get a job as a refugee lawyer as a result? Get real, readers. In the first place, I was seventy, and who’d take me on for training? In the second place, there are no jobs anyway, in law as anywhere else. I have to tell you that, after a year’s hard graft and many disappointments, I’ve finally got a place working as a humble volunteer with some really fun lawyers, and I’ve made a couple of discoveries which I can share with you. (More to come, no doubt.) I’d welcome your views.

Law is not about cases. It’s about stationery. You have to deal with an unmanageable pile of papers going back maybe ten years. Most of what’s been said, according to the judges, who should know, is in those papers, and it’s incredible (hence the title of this post in case you were wondering), and you’re supposed to make it sound credible. You have to organise the papers in plastic folders, held by paper clips, oh how can you keep them separate? Get some more folders. Is the photocopier working? Get some coffee and don’t spill it. Why is that document dated 2009, it should be 2012? Why are those tenancy papers in among the leave to remain ones? Get a grip.

There are mysterious people called ‘clients’. By a convenient fiction, they”re supposed to be what it’s all really about (you’re trying to do something for them, to fight their corner); but they don’t turn up for appointments, having no credit on their phone, living in Ealing, having got the flu, not having got your message anyway. The moments of contact between lawyer and client are indeed the ideal which we strive for; but the contact is mostly via the photocopier and the voicemail.

I sort of feel it was different in the days of Atticus Finch.

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Anyway, having just, for the first time, met a ‘client’ (I’m professionally bound not to tell you what happened, but it didn’t involve sex or alcohol), I have more of an idea if what ‘it”s about. I expect next time will be different. As Auden pointed out, law isn’t what you expect.

Law, say the gardeners, is the sun,
Law is the one
All gardeners obey
To-morrow, yesterday, to-day.

Law is the wisdom of the old,
The impotent grandfathers feebly scold;
The grandchildren put out a treble tongue,
Law is the senses of the young.

Law, says the priest with a priestly look,
Expounding to an unpriestly people,
Law is the words in my priestly book,
Law is my pulpit and my steeple.

Law, says the judge as he looks down his nose,
Speaking clearly and most severely,
Law is as I’ve told you before,
Law is as you know I suppose,
Law is but let me explain it once more,
Law is The Law.

Yet law-abiding scholars write:
Law is neither wrong nor right,
Law is only crimes
Punished by places and by times,
Law is the clothes men wear
Anytime, anywhere,
Law is Good morning and Good night.

Others say, Law is our Fate;
Others say, Law is our State;
Others say, others say
Law is no more,
Law has gone away.

And always the loud angry crowd,
Very angry and very loud,
Law is We,
And always the soft idiot softly Me.

If we, dear, know we know no more
Than they about the Law,
If I no more than you
Know what we should and should not do
Except that all agree
Gladly or miserably
That the Law is
And that all know this
If therefore thinking it absurd
To identify Law with some other word,
Unlike so many men
I cannot say Law is again,

No more than they can we suppress
The universal wish to guess
Or slip out of our own position
Into an unconcerned condition.
Although I can at least confine
Your vanity and mine
To stating timidly
A timid similarity,
We shall boast anyway:
Like love I say.

Like love we don’t know where or why,
Like love we can’t compel or fly,
Like love we often weep,
Like love we seldom keep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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