Barristers intimidate me.

It’s not a good thing to admit when you’re a solicitor. You have to deal with them a lot and if you constantly feel like a PE teacher trying to do arithmetic when you meet them, you’re in for a pretty cringey time.

What makes it worse is that they pretty much all have appalling god complexes. Planted in a private prep school, watered in public school, allowed to bloom at Oxbridge and then picked and put on display in an elite chambers. “Of course I’m good, you pleb...now make me some tea.”

So spending about an hour chatting to a couple last night was only made liveable by drinking a large amount of the free champagne that was on offer. This may sound like a feeble excuse for getting lashed with impunity. However, I should point out that I’m married and so cannot do anything with impunity.

Now, contrary to appearances (and grammar) I am a reasonably bright chap. OK grades, so-so degree, tricky job, yada-yada. Compared to most punters you come across I don’t exactly feel superior, but certainly capable of holding my own. But this bunch of wigged gits en-mong-ify me. It’s bizarre. Naturally I flick back to my default position – sarcasm. Asking about how long it took to pick out that pinky ring, whether the poor should be disenfranchised and if he’d ever thought about becoming a solicitor to make more money – all of these made for some great moments of “are you taking the piss” stares.

So in the end I had to make my excuses, wander off to find the waiter with the mini-burger tray and wonder if I would feel crap in the morning. I do, so at least I made one correct call. Forgetting my house keys, eating a large cold Chinese and waking up on the sofa were less prudent choices.

Ah well...on with the weekend.