Of course it does.
‘You have to enter the room in order of seniority,’ says Skylar, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to do.
People start forming a line. All the old folk who have been at the Bar hundreds of years (or so it appears) stand ceremoniously at the front, emanating a great sense of achievement. Then there’s me at the end and a whole load of middle-aged people in the middle.
Some random man I’ve never seen before comes to the front of the line with a kind of sceptre-stick thingy, stamps it on the floor three times and the general guffawing and chattering comes to an abrupt end. He declares that ‘Dinner shall be served!’ and everyone begins walking in.
As people spew into the dining room, they clamber around for the best seats. Obviously, Marty is beckoned over to the ‘old boys’ table consisting of his fan club from Chambers. Skylar really couldn’t have picked a worse table, but he’s been left with little option. It includes Angela and her Hot Bar Bitches Club (Flick, ‘Jazz’, Lottie and the passive-aggressive Clarinda) and a fella called Rupert, who is clearly tickled pink to be surrounded by women. I’m Enemy Number One to the ‘The Girls’ since HairGate and they just ignore me/giggle whenever I get anywhere near them (with the exception of Angela, because she’s in my Chambers so has to talk to me, but I know she’s only doing it to feed information back to the others, so I’m all over it). I’m sandwiched between Rupert and Skylar, so I don’t actually have to talk to them.
Angela is wired tonight. She’s joining Circuit, which basically means becoming a member of the Northern Barristers’ Organisation. That’s it. But, being the Bar, they can’t pass up the opportunity for a performance and so she has to participate in the most ridiculous tradition I’ve come across yet.
After dinner, she has to stand on a chair on one leg and recite her intention to be an honourable member of Circuit, then down her drink. As per the tradition, you invite all your friends to watch and they have to heckle you to try and put you off and, if they do, you have to start from the beginning again.
I’d managed to completely disgrace myself in week four of pupillage, one lunchtime in the Chambers lounge. Angela was wittering on about the ridiculous tradition and, naturally, being a normal person of this world, I assumed she was joking, so absurd did the whole thing sound. I started laughing, attempting to integrate myself into the conversation by saying, ‘Gosh, can you imagine if that was even a thing?! How pretentious!’ The entire lounge went deadly silent and everyone looked at me. Everyone except Skylar, who just took a deep breath, gazing at his homemade sandwich and doing a massive cringe face. I paused for a few seconds, frozen in mid-laugh, before saying, ‘That’s really a thing, isn’t it?’ Dolus scowled at me before uttering, ‘These kinds of traditions are taken very seriously in our world, Amanda. If you want to be part of it, I suggest you don’t mock them.’
‘Our’ World and ‘My’ World. Clearly, a million miles apart.
I’m in a bit of a quandary about what to drink as I’m scared of needing the loo in the next three hours because, as Rupert informs me, once the meal has started you’re not allowed to exit. ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Tradition,’ he says, matter of factly.
Ah, of course.
‘But if you desperately need the toilet, you must request permission from the Circuit Junior to leave the room,’ Skylar goes on.
All tradition, apparently.
Conversation as we’re waiting for the meal to arrive truly is a universe away from my life. Rupert tells us all about his new baby (‘Maximilian, not Max’) and how he and his wife are currently searching for a new house.
‘Well, the problem is, Amelie just hasn’t been happy with any of the places we’ve seen so far. And there’s no point in rushing these things so we’ve decided to rent until we find the perfect place.’
‘Oh, yeah. Absolutly, Rupes. Are you renting locally?’, Flick empathises.
‘Yes. Just a small farmhouse, only six bedrooms. Got a bit of land for Amelie’s horses. Nothing extravagant. Just until we find our “forever home”, I believe the saying is!’ he laughs.
They all chuckle, like this is the most normal thing to say as you’re waiting for your tea to arrive.
I have absolutely nothing in common with these people.
Given the current company, I’d much rather eat in silence, but Angela puts a stop to all that by loudly proclaiming her (fake) concern about getting the speech on the chair right.
‘Oh! Can you imagine how embarrassing it will be if I get it wrong and have to start from the very beginning again?!’
I’m sure you’re counting on it, I want to add. The Covern (as they shall be known from here on in) giggle and indulge her.
‘Gella, don’t worry, we’re you’re bezzies! We’re here for you!’ they chorus.
Just to ensure everyone knows how seriously she’s taking it, ‘Gella’ closes her eyes tightly, clenches her fists and recites the speech in a whispery, overexaggerated way, much to the amusement of Skylar, who looks on in disdain. Rupert laps it up and encourages the drama, presumably in an attempt to curry favour with The Covern.
Skylar and I eat in silence, ignoring the hullabaloo around us, unprepared to participate in it in any way whatsoever. I look at my watch and realise it’s only 8.37 p.m. – two more courses, speeches and eight barristers to join Circuit before I can go home. The things you have to suffer for your profession.
As the meal progresses, the wine flows and the room becomes louder with general yakking. Spontaneous loud roars of laughter keep erupting, filling the room with noise. The candles in the room, in conjunction with the number of bodies in it (along with the fact that the doors are locked owing to stupid tradition) means the temperature is rising.
Suit jackets start coming off, which is ideal for some of the women because it means they get to loosen their shirt buttons and show a bit of cleavage. The men lap it up. No wonder they’re in no rush to get home. Except Skylar, of course. He keeps looking at his watch, willing the next course to come so he can escape. I can’t blame him.
‘It’s something you just have to tolerate, Amanda,’ Skylar says. ‘Some people belong to this crowd and some people don’t. You have to make your peace with it, but learn to work with it.’
He has a point. If these are the people I have to work with – and who will decide my future – I’ll just have to get along with that. Doesn’t mean they won’t fuck me off, though.
For example, at one point, Angela, bored of the predominantly female company on our table, wanders over to the next one, which is occupied by the Bad Boy Bar Crew, and finds a ludicrously tenuous route to inform them (loudly) that the gap in her front teeth is a sign that she’s a ‘very sexual, sensual person’. So all of our lives are better for knowing that.
After approximately thirty years, the meal comes to an end and we move on to the next part of the event: speeches.
The Recorder of Newcastle (the most senior judge in the city) gives a long, boring spiel about what an honour it is to be part of Circuit. Blagh blagh blagh… important to feel a sense of belonging to your professional domain… blagh blagh.
Quite.
Then the visiting guest, Mr Justice Slyggenhyde (Oh, I know) delivers a really long speech about how wonderful the north-east is and how it’s been a pleasure sitting up here presiding over cases… blagh blagh. Everyone is flagging at this point. The wine has run out and it’s boiling hot. There is no air left in the room because the Recorder and High Court Judge WhatsHisFace have used it all up bleating on about advocacy in the provinces. Everyone is literally on the cusp of dropping dead due to lack of oxygen when thankfully the ‘staff’ fling the doors