Ok. So you turn up to do a trial. Highly professional blah blah as usual. Mr neanderthal, non-descript thug is charged with random violence. He's all kind of, well 'big', with tattoos and a shaven head and wears bright white trainers (with some unattributed skin and blood-staining on them, obviously) whilst grunting incomprehensibly. Stone Island jacket, bad temper, folds of skin on the back of his neck and lots of form.
Behind him, in due course no doubt, will trail Donna, Tracy, Shaznay or Britney or whatever the name of his current 'bird' is - met whilst of course he was working on the doors. She'll be skinny, moody, lank hair, with four kids of various hues, outstanding court fines and a crack habit. And possibly herpes. Less heroin chic more - well, heroin skank. You get the idea? This scene plays out time and time again and has done every day of every year since I've been at the Bar - except today. Oh no, not today..
I thought it must be an illusion at first. She was tall, elegant, with soft brown hair, delicate porcelain skin and an utterly enchanting smile. Almost feline features. Her name was Francesca. Francesca?! She was a teacher. A job?! She was beautiful. My God was she beautiful. Softly spoken, polite and with eyes I could curl up and die in. Not just 'ooh, she's quite nice' pretty but you know, properly 'oh my, I feel physical pain and need to lie down' beautiful. She must be an interpreter? A police officer? No, wait, a journalist? No. Dear God no.
She goes out with - with him?!
Yes that's right. I'm in love with a gangster's Mrs. A punter's moll. His 'childhood sweetheart' no less. I imagine if he knew it would be slightly hazardous to my health. And ever so slightly unprofessional. On my part that is. On reflection, I decided not to tell him.
So, whilst us normal blokes are worrying how we meet the woman of our dreams and then, how we keep her, retard-boy here obviously keeps his relationship with this gorgeous creature sweet by stamping on people's skulls every 2 or 3 years. Super. Priceless. I could have cried. I think I did in a quiet moment.
Needless to say, the Bar Standards Board website and accompanying manual (the compendious and largely useless Professional Ethics section)does not have a section entitled 'What to do if you really really fancy your lay client's girlfriend'. It should have. Maybe I'll write one? Step One: Sink to your kneess, Two: Remove book of poetry, Three: Get very badly assaulted..
Anyway, as the title suggests and despite my still beating heart, I'm guessing this is just not allowed. Sigh.
True love is never easy eh? Our children would have been so cute...
