There was a bit of a flap at my Chambers on Friday. Too much work: too few barristers. The clerks feverishly worked the telephones, charming and cajoling other clerks at other chambers into taking some of the overload. Yet despite their best efforts, by seven O'clock in the evening they remained unsuccessful in finding someone to defend a young joyrider at Basildon Crown Court. And so it was that, early this morning, I found myself ironing (the front of) a shirt in readiness for my second Court appearance of the month.
It has to have been nearly a year since I last donned a wig and gown and it felt not a little odd as I strode out of the Robing Room to meet my instructing solicitor and her delinquent client.
However, it didn't feel wrong.
Later, I decided to drive to my Chambers rather than driving straight home and, once there, I soon found myself chatting and laughing with some of my old colleagues.
At the time, it didn't feel wrong.
On the way home, I had to stop the car.
Suddenly, it all felt terribly, terribly wrong.