Photo by Jamie Davies on Flickr

I have Olympic fever, literally. Sore throat, headache, sneezing, the works and whilst other colleagues in the office have been immune to my legal lurgy, many have been competing in their own office-based events.

This week, for example, I’ve witnessed a secretary in the 400m backpedal. She claimed to have sent out an engagement letter before later confessing. We’ve also had a team of trainees in the 10m Due Diligence Dive into a sea of papers and a corporate partner in the Long Client Management Jump. The client was upset about calls never being returned promptly. Has nobody told him that the Olympics are on? In London?

Today some of my colleagues will be competing in the following events:

Men’s 100m Out Of Court Settlement Sprint

Men’s 42kg Warranty Wrestle

Women’s 62kg Trademark Taekwondo

Men’s 200m Confidential Canoe Sprint

Women’s Synchronised Shareholders Agreement

Men’s Bona Fide Boxing Match

You’ll find me in the cheap seats, cheering them on. Achoo!

Photo by Kevin Dooley on Flickr

Lawyers hate to be wrong. Period. It’s in their DNA. It’s unlawyerly and utterly unacceptable or as Lemony Snicket puts it, “it is very unnerving to be proven wrong, particularly when you are really right and the person who is really wrong is proving you wrong and proving himself, wrongly, right.”

But in this post I want to propose five reasons why being wrong – a little wrong, wrong in a whoopsie don’t I look stupid kind of a way, rather than this is likely to get me booted out of the profession kind of a way – may in fact be, erm, right.

Here goes:

1. It will lull the other side into a fall sense of security;

2. Change is good. It will put a spring in your step and you’ll feel like a new lawyer;

3. Clients will find it comforting to see your human side;

4. Losing control is character building; and

5. You’ll probably become better acquainted with your professional indemnity insurer. Well haven’t you always thought that he sounds like a right laugh on the phone?

Photo by iglazer on Flickr

If you sit around all day in a law firm drinking coffee and eating crap, you get fat. Period. Seriously, the scales of legal justice are incredibly unforgiving. I myself have gone through a period of denial for the past month or so, a month in which I have barely left the office. It’s just that weird light or that dodgy mirror that is making me look fat. I’m fine. I don’t need to exercise. I have a super-human metabolism. I haven’t gained a pound. Seriously, there’s nothing to see here. Classic, classic denial. Anyway, I bit the bullet last night by weighing myself and I am in denial no longer. I have been presented with a number and I don’t like the look of it. Not one bit. Admittedly, it would have been better if I had jumped on the scales earlier, but I didn’t. End of. It’s just that managing and indeed losing weight would have been so much easier if I had been more mindful of my every expanding waistline. I have, however, now seen the sugar-free light. Address this problem, I will. I must.

On the flip side, this period of denial has also taught me a thing about file management. From this day forth I will no longer hide nasty correspondence and ignore problems – an approach which only leads to really nasty correspondence and bigger problems. Moreover, no longer will I hide files until I change seats. Oh no, not this trainee. I will forevermore manage files and my waistline as if my future practising certificate depends on it.

Beats self up for eating a chocolate croissant this morning.

Adds “must dig out trainers” to my to-do list.

Photo by Oyvind Solstad on Flickr

At the request of some bods in human resources, I’ve been asked to come up with some thoughts on how and in what way I would improve the trainee solicitor experience. This is what I’ve got so far…

1. George Clooney as a supervisor.

2. Freedom to choose the clients I work for and my hours.

3. Free designer shoes, nutritious meals delivered to my flat and a cleaner.

4. A duvet day once a month. No questions asked.

5. And a secretary who is happy to do “trainee work.”

*deletes the above* *goes back to the drawing board* *stares at a blank page*

Photo by Rachael Powers on Flickr

Before I started working as a trainee solicitor I imagined that my days would go something like this:

6.45am – Alarm goes off. I jump out of bed. I feel great. Fresh. Alive. Pumped. 6.55am – I prepare and eat a nutritious breakfast. I take my time. I’m relaxed. I’m totally excited about the day ahead. 7.15am – I shower. I like to sing in the shower. So I do. 7.45am – I find myself waiting to get on the tube to work. Everyone’s smiling and I get a seat. There are no delays. There is no smell of urine and every part of my commute goes swimmingly. Like clockwork. 8.15 am – I arrive in the office. My secretary loves me. We high-five each other. I rock. She rocks. We both rock. We’re all one big family here and my colleagues could not be more supportive. 8.40am – I open my inbox. A client writes to tell me that my letter before action was a masterpiece. She can’t thank me enough. 8.45am – I review some evidence. I find something that proves our client’s case beyond all reasonable doubt. The other side cave in and the managing partner pats me on the back. The managing partner knows what I’ve done. He knows my name. In fact, he tells me to book a spa weekend on the firm. So I do. I won’t be working over the weekend any time soon. I know it. He knows it. 9am – My supervising partner tells me that he doesn’t know what he would do without me. He asks if I want one lump of sugar or two in my coffee. I tell him that I’d like one lump and an almond croissant, lightly toasted. He should know how to work the office toaster. He’s had enough non-chargeable practice. 10.02am – I stare at a contract. It stares back. 10.35am – I propose some amendments. My client loves them and my opponent is too dumb to understand grasp their impact. It’s like stealing candy warranties from a baby. It’s too easy. I’m not breaking a sweat. Actually, I’m not even thinking that hard.  11.00am – My opponent calls to discuss the proposed amendments. I dazzle him with my contractual charm and the whole thing is wrapped up by lunchtime. He has no idea what he has done. And I needn’t worry about printing off copies and getting everything signed. That’s what paralegals are for. Right? 1pm – I sit down for a nice long lunch. I have a great view of London and everyone laughs at my witty anecdotes. I’m hilarious. Glasses are clinked and everyone cheers. Heck, the client is paying and everyone just wants me to be happy. Some firms think paying you is payment enough. Not this firm. Not these clients. My happiness is paramount. 4pm – I stumble back into the office. Everyone cheers. I hear a whoop and a whey hey! I love the enthusiasm. The dynamism. It’s just want the trainee recruitment brochure promised. 5pm – The New York office calls. They want me to give a talk about adding value. In person. And the legal press wants a quote on how I ruddy well do it. I’m amazing. I know it. My firm knows it. The legal press knows it. 6pm  – I skip off home. Not a minute later. I go to a yoga class. I meet a friend for dinner. I can’t wait for tomorrow. I sleep like a legal log.

In reality, though, my days as a trainee solicitor tend to go something like this. Strike an eggy pose.

Wake Up.

Wing It.

Bill It.

Photo by Bernard Goldbach on Flickr

Photo by John Mosbaugh on Flickr

I have to draft, in the context of construction, a letter to a foreign client explaining the English litigation system. So far I like Ambrose Bierce’s take on the matter, “Litigation: A machine which you go into as a pig and come out of as a sausage.”

Seriously, he is *THAT* far off the mark?

Photo by Jeffrey Beall on Flickr

I have struggled into work this week with laryngitis. Seriously, I have no voice (I’m not even allowed to whisper) and I can only communicate via the written word or by taping on my mobile. Obviously, this is a great time for a mid-seat appraisal. Not.

The appraisal is partly to discuss my performance. But primarily it is a formal opportunity for my boss to acquire the footage I shot of him at the after office Christmas party. Him all pale skin, hairy chest and jelly belly, dancing with his shirt off in a club and me hiding behind an artificial plant with my shiny new camera phone. And there is no point in denying I have the footage. Even in his drunken state he saw me.

“Your work ethic is poor, you have a weird sense of humour and you’re not cut out for a career in law,” he said. “Do you agree?”

I pressed the number 2 key on my mobile twice. One beep for yes, two beeps for no and three beeps for I’m out, I want this meeting to end.

“Well, this is what I am going to officially record on your mid-seat appraisal unless you hand over the memory stick,” he replied, as I sat silently staring at him across a large glass table.

“I want the memory stick,” he continued, as he adjusted his yellow tie and sat back in his chair.

I too sat back in my chair. Silent, arms crossed, backed into a corner and in a huff.

And as I sat looking directly at my boss’s blotchy and bloated post-festive face, I wondered what Tony Soprano would do. Obviously if I was the real Tony Soprano we would NOT be having this conversation, but we must work with the cards we’re dealt. Anyway, I took the memory stick out of my phone and placed it on the table in front of me.

“You’ve made the right decision,” said my boss. “So we’re done here, right?”

I pressed the number 2 key on my mobile three times, followed by:

.. /  …. .- …- . /  - . – .–. — .-. .- .-. .. .-.. -.– /  .-.. — … - /  – -.– /  …- — .. -.-. . –..– /  -. — - /  – -.– /  – .. -. -.. /  – .- - . .-.-.- /  — …. /  .- -. -.. /  .. /  …. .- …- . /  .- -. — - …. . .-. /  -.-. — .–. -.– /  — ..-. /  - …. . /  …- .. -.. . — /  …. .. -.. -.. . -. /  – -.– /  … — -.-. -.- /  -.. .-. .- .– . .-. .-.-.- /  … ..- -.-. -.- . .-. .-.-.-

But I couldn’t possibly comment. Did I not mention that I have LARYNGITIS!

Photo by Kate Ter Haar on Flickr

This year I will attend another office Christmas party, but this is not just going to be any Christmas party. This is a Christmas party that has been lovingly prepared by the bods on the party planning committee for the last three months (or over 90 days at 160F).

The venue has been booked, the menu has been agreed and today I’ve finally got round to reading through the official party rules – an extensive list of rules that makes the FSA’s recent report into the failure of RBS (452 pages) look like a short blog post.

The rules have been drafted by the party planning committee, in partnership with the ‘elf and safety’ sub-committee and collectively they seem to be sensitive to anything that has a legal aroma.

Anyway, here are some rule highlights and what I suggest they really mean in practice.

Rule 1: Dress to impress.

Means: Please do not wear anything too revealing or offensive. We don’t care how much you love it, how sparkly it is or if your granny knitted it for you specially. Also, clean your teeth. No one likes talking to the office onion.

Rule 2: Don’t let your guard down.

Means: Trust no one. Especially, the office frenemy.

Rule 3: Enjoy yourself, but stay alert.

Means: Beware. There are camera phones everywhere.

Rule 4: Have fun.

Means: Have fun, yes, but only the right sort of fun. So that’s no sitting in the corner by yourself, no peeing in a pot plant, no dancing on the tables, no strip poker, no barfing in a toilet and no kissing anyone who is not in possession of ‘elf and safety’ approved mistletoe. This can be purchased from anyone on the ‘elf and safety’ sub-committee. They will, of course, need your signature in a Christmas Card. Why? Well, the first rule of the ‘elf and safety’ sub-committee, in relation to the sale of approved mistletoe, requires written confirmation that the firm and anyone in a firm committee (to infinity and beyond) are absolved from all legal responsibility associated with its sale and subsequent use on firm/party venue premises.

Rule 5: Treat people with respect.

Means: Marching up to a colleague and whispering “yeah baby” in your best Austin Powers voice is not acceptable.

Photo by Ambernectar13 on Flickr

On the first day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

A court application fee.

—

On the second day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

Two bossy barristers,

And a court application fee.

—

On the third day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

Three firm pens,

Two bossy barristers,

And a court application fee.

—

On the fourth day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

Four calling clients,

Three firm pens,

Two bossy barristers,

And a court application fee.

—

On the fifth day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

Five golden handshakes,

Four calling clients,

Three firm pens,

Two bossy barristers,

And a court application fee.

—

On the sixth day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

Six judges praying,

Five golden handshakes,

Four calling clients,

Three firm pens,

Two bossy barristers,

And a court application fee.

—

On the seventh day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

Seven experts grinning,

Six judges praying,

Five golden handshakes,

Four calling clients,

Three firm pens,

Two bossy barristers,

And a court application fee.

—

On the eighth day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

Eight bods a-billing,

Seven experts grinning,

Six judges praying,

Five golden handshakes,

Four calling clients,

Three firm pens,

Two bossy barristers,

And a court application fee.

—

On the ninth day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

Nine trainees dancing,

Eight bods a-billing,

Seven experts grinning,

Six judges praying,

Five golden handshakes,

Four calling clients,

Three firm pens,

Two bossy barristers,

And a court application fee.

—

On the tenth day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

Ten mentors sleeping,

Nine trainees dancing,

Eight bods a-billing,

Seven experts grinning,

Six judges praying,

Five golden handshakes,

Four calling clients,

Three firm pens,

Two bossy barristers,

And a court application fee.

—

On the eleventh day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

Eleven fraudsters swiping,

Ten mentors sleeping,

Nine trainees dancing,

Eight bods a-billing,

Seven experts grinning,

Six judges praying,

Five golden handshakes,

Four calling clients,

Three firm pens,

Two bossy barristers,

And a court application fee.

—

On the twelfth day of Christmas,

my legal boss sent to me

Twelve partners humming,

Eleven fraudsters swiping,

Ten mentors sleeping,

Nine trainees dancing,

Eight bods a-billing,

Seven experts grinning,

Six judges praying,

Five golden handshakes,

Four calling clients,

Three firm pens,

Two bossy barristers,

And a court application fee.

Photo by Lisa Clarke on Flickr

Dashing down to court

In a big red open bus

Through Lincoln’s Inn we go

Laughing all the way

Bells on papers ring

Making spirits bright

What fun it is to ride and sue

A lawyering song tonight

—

Jingle bells, property seat hell

Litigate all the way

Oh what fun it is to sue

In a Magic Circle firm, O

Jingle bells, property seat hell

Litigate all the way

Oh what fun it is to sue

In a Magic Circle firm

Photo by R. Blume on Flickr

Typography for Lawyers (Book)

I Am Quite Unusually Brilliant T-Shirt (Clothes)

Notice (Sign)

The Banned List (Book)

Chicken Suit For The Lawyer’s Soul (Music)

Chocolate Shoes (Chocolate)

OMG (Mug)

Daily Mood Calendar (Calendar)

More Weird Cases (Book)

 Oops Eraser (Office)