*/
A joyous occasion is marred by a spectre at the feast
October 8, 2012: “The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, Gang aft agley” - Robert Burns
I had hoped that my junior, Miss Henrietta Briar-Pitt would be working on the looming case of R. v. Jason Grimble, alleged co-murderer of Britain’s least popular former circuit judge, Claude Allerick, who was shortly to be tried at the Central Criminal Court by Claude’s successor from the judicial charisma by-pass section. Instead of which, I was ensconced in her equestrian pile, due to give her away to Mr Justice Pennington, batchelor knight, until, that is, recent dietary indiscretions caused a parting of her garments at an eve-of-wedding supper, prompting an apparent withdrawal from the nuptial event.
By morning she was once again reconciled to married bliss and a contingent of flunkeys appeared bearing irons, flowers, tiaras, makeup trays and a series of hairdressing implements, whilst those downstairs coiffed glasses of champagne. My conservative, but far from dull, choice of stripes and a black tailcoat, black topper, buff waistcoat with a grey silk tie and lemon chamois gloves brought forth general derision from some of Hetty’s house guests, who favoured Moss Bros’ latest fashions. Andy, Hetty’s hairdresser friend, summed up the popular mood whilst still perpetuating the myth that I was Miss Briar-Pitt’s father, doubtless because I had been asked to give her away:
“Wouldn’t you rather have a scrunchie tie, dad,” he said, “or a lovely cravat?” I smiled in wintry fashion. “And I’d have thought you’d have gone for a blue and cream paisley for your waistcoat.”
Then there was a sudden rustle of taffeta on the stairs and a split second of silence before “oohs”, “ohs” and “ahs” came from downstairs as a beatific looking Hetty glided down the stairs. The women surged forward to kiss her and the men shuffled uncomfortably in this temple of female mystery.
Then a clip-clopping sound accompanied by squeaking announced two horses and an open carriage bedecked with ribbons and flowers. I noticed with relief that I was not meant to make the beasts go – a relief which quickly evaporated when the driver turned round and I saw the face of Ronnie, our junior clerk. “Didn’t know I could ride, did you sir?” he said. I certainly did not.
Thankfully, the journey was mercifully short. As we arrived, what looked like a Hollywood film unit surged forward to record the entrance. Whether the horses had been at Henrietta’s All-Bran, or whether it was just the stress of the occasion, they simultaneously lifted their tails for an unhappy interlude, somewhat detracting from the festal scene. Hetty started to cry. “Don’t worry!” I said. “It hasn’t got on your dress.”
“I never knew my father!” she said, clutching me round the neck in a two handed manoeuvre. This did not seem the moment to conduct a Jeremy Kyle inquiry but, fortunately, the malodorous atmosphere a few inches ahead drove us out of the carriage and within moments, we were entering the lovely village Church. As I led her up the aisle to “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba”, I noticed that the “dearly beloved” in the pews resembled Grand Night at my Inn.
We sang lustily, prayed fervently, and I performed my role without disaster. Indeed, it was a textbook wedding until the bride and groom knelt on two beautiful seventeenth century kneelers for their prayers. Just as at the pre-wedding meal, an hideous rending sound accompanied a savage gash in the rear of the bridal gown. A ripple of suppressed laughter erupted into a storm. I glanced at Hetty in horror. However, on this occasion, she was laughing the loudest.
The wedding breakfast was exceptionally generous and magnificent. Even the Twist brothers overdid it and Paddy Corkhill, our Chambers’ resident alcoholic, suddenly fell asleep in the peach soufflé mid-way through an incomprehensible anecdote. However, like fairy tales, goodness has to exist with wickedness. I was basking in the drunken praise resulting from my own little speech when Andrew, our Senior Clerk, marshalled someone in my direction who, as my eyes re-focused, was the dreadful judge recently appointed to the Bailey and assigned to try poor Jason Grimble – a man who famously retired to bed with the Criminal Procedure Rules and cocoa. No-one invited him to anything, but I guessed that Hetty, in a spirit of exuberant celebratory largesse must have sent him a stiffie. Oh well, it was a party!
He came nose-to-nose and I could see he was quivering with rage. “Have you even heard of my pre-trial orders?’ he said in a spluttering voice. Sadly, the vintage Rioja procured by Ernst Pennington J., our bridegroom, spoke for me: “Can’t say I have actually, but if you hum it, I’ll sing it.”
William Byfield is the pseudonym of a senior member of the Bar. Gutteridge Chambers, and the events that happen there, are entirely fictitious.
By morning she was once again reconciled to married bliss and a contingent of flunkeys appeared bearing irons, flowers, tiaras, makeup trays and a series of hairdressing implements, whilst those downstairs coiffed glasses of champagne. My conservative, but far from dull, choice of stripes and a black tailcoat, black topper, buff waistcoat with a grey silk tie and lemon chamois gloves brought forth general derision from some of Hetty’s house guests, who favoured Moss Bros’ latest fashions. Andy, Hetty’s hairdresser friend, summed up the popular mood whilst still perpetuating the myth that I was Miss Briar-Pitt’s father, doubtless because I had been asked to give her away:
“Wouldn’t you rather have a scrunchie tie, dad,” he said, “or a lovely cravat?” I smiled in wintry fashion. “And I’d have thought you’d have gone for a blue and cream paisley for your waistcoat.”
Then there was a sudden rustle of taffeta on the stairs and a split second of silence before “oohs”, “ohs” and “ahs” came from downstairs as a beatific looking Hetty glided down the stairs. The women surged forward to kiss her and the men shuffled uncomfortably in this temple of female mystery.
Then a clip-clopping sound accompanied by squeaking announced two horses and an open carriage bedecked with ribbons and flowers. I noticed with relief that I was not meant to make the beasts go – a relief which quickly evaporated when the driver turned round and I saw the face of Ronnie, our junior clerk. “Didn’t know I could ride, did you sir?” he said. I certainly did not.
Thankfully, the journey was mercifully short. As we arrived, what looked like a Hollywood film unit surged forward to record the entrance. Whether the horses had been at Henrietta’s All-Bran, or whether it was just the stress of the occasion, they simultaneously lifted their tails for an unhappy interlude, somewhat detracting from the festal scene. Hetty started to cry. “Don’t worry!” I said. “It hasn’t got on your dress.”
“I never knew my father!” she said, clutching me round the neck in a two handed manoeuvre. This did not seem the moment to conduct a Jeremy Kyle inquiry but, fortunately, the malodorous atmosphere a few inches ahead drove us out of the carriage and within moments, we were entering the lovely village Church. As I led her up the aisle to “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba”, I noticed that the “dearly beloved” in the pews resembled Grand Night at my Inn.
We sang lustily, prayed fervently, and I performed my role without disaster. Indeed, it was a textbook wedding until the bride and groom knelt on two beautiful seventeenth century kneelers for their prayers. Just as at the pre-wedding meal, an hideous rending sound accompanied a savage gash in the rear of the bridal gown. A ripple of suppressed laughter erupted into a storm. I glanced at Hetty in horror. However, on this occasion, she was laughing the loudest.
The wedding breakfast was exceptionally generous and magnificent. Even the Twist brothers overdid it and Paddy Corkhill, our Chambers’ resident alcoholic, suddenly fell asleep in the peach soufflé mid-way through an incomprehensible anecdote. However, like fairy tales, goodness has to exist with wickedness. I was basking in the drunken praise resulting from my own little speech when Andrew, our Senior Clerk, marshalled someone in my direction who, as my eyes re-focused, was the dreadful judge recently appointed to the Bailey and assigned to try poor Jason Grimble – a man who famously retired to bed with the Criminal Procedure Rules and cocoa. No-one invited him to anything, but I guessed that Hetty, in a spirit of exuberant celebratory largesse must have sent him a stiffie. Oh well, it was a party!
He came nose-to-nose and I could see he was quivering with rage. “Have you even heard of my pre-trial orders?’ he said in a spluttering voice. Sadly, the vintage Rioja procured by Ernst Pennington J., our bridegroom, spoke for me: “Can’t say I have actually, but if you hum it, I’ll sing it.”
William Byfield is the pseudonym of a senior member of the Bar. Gutteridge Chambers, and the events that happen there, are entirely fictitious.
A joyous occasion is marred by a spectre at the feast
October 8, 2012: “The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, Gang aft agley” - Robert Burns
I had hoped that my junior, Miss Henrietta Briar-Pitt would be working on the looming case of R. v. Jason Grimble, alleged co-murderer of Britain’s least popular former circuit judge, Claude Allerick, who was shortly to be tried at the Central Criminal Court by Claude’s successor from the judicial charisma by-pass section. Instead of which, I was ensconced in her equestrian pile, due to give her away to Mr Justice Pennington, batchelor knight, until, that is, recent dietary indiscretions caused a parting of her garments at an eve-of-wedding supper, prompting an apparent withdrawal from the nuptial event.
Making a move from the Bar to a career in governance: Maria Brookes outlines three good reasons to switch and how to do it
Inés Rivera explains how speech recognition can help barristers create accurate documentation faster
What should barristers be doing on the personal finance front ahead of the end of the tax year on 5 April? Julian Morgan of Fleet Street Wealth answers your questions
Are you ready to embark on this arduous but potentially rewarding journey? Julie Gottlieb of Sherwood PSF Consulting provides a self-examination checklist, hints and tips to help you prepare for a future application
Unlocking your aged debt to augment cash flow in one easy step… By Philip N Bristow of Vector Professions Finance
The Westminster Commission on Miscarriages of Justice, set up to revisit the work of the CCRC after 25 years of operation, identified serious issues that risk miscarriages of justice remaining unidentified or unremedied. By Edward Garnier QC Michelle Nelson QC
Unsparing in his criticism, the former Attorney General reflects on recent events in government and his own experience of being chief legal adviser. Interview by Anthony Inglese CB
Making a move from the Bar to a career in governance: Maria Brookes outlines three good reasons to switch and how to do it
Sports coaches will be caught by a change in the law that addresses the disparity in treatment for 16- to 17-year-olds, writes Cameron Brown QC
Dissent and protest are a healthy safety valve for every democracy, write Sailesh Mehta and Caroline Baker, yet recent events have put the proposals around policing public protest under the spotlight and many do not like what they see