am expected to learn the fine art of advocacy.
‘Erm…’ I mutter.
What does he expect me to do?
He instantly snaps out of jazz hands mode and stands up straight. ‘Well, come on, Barbie! No time for sitting around, we’re starting a trial in a few hours!’ he barks.
This is utterly bizarre.
I follow Skylar into his attic office and there is no chatting on the way. He sits behind his desk and points to a chair on the other side of it, presumably for me to sit down. Having lugged my suitcase up all the stairs, I am now panting quite a bit, which is quite the disgrace for a twenty-three-year-old woman. The desk is huge and made of dark mahogany wood, covered in bundles of paper, none of which appears to be in any kind of order. Some of the bundles have coffee-cup rings on, highlighted by the bright stream of sun pouring in through the small window.
He folds his arms and looks very stern, seemingly choosing to ignore the musical feast bestowed upon me only minutes before.
‘Right,’ he asserts. ‘My name is Skylar, Richard Skylar. Not Rich, Richard. I’ve given you a day’s grace for today, but from now on you will come into Chambers at 7.30 a.m. and will not leave until I say you can go. I will be giving you weekly advocacy exercises to perform for me.’
I nod intently, hoping Skylar can’t hear my heart racing ten to the dozen or my gulping at the information he has just dispensed.
‘You are my fourth pupil and will be my last, so you’d better be good,’ he goes on.
Oh fuck. The pressure.
‘I’ll try my best, Mr Skylar.’
‘I want you to know that you can always come to me for advice. I am always contactable, day or night. But NEVER call me when Doctor Who is on because I simply will not answer. I am allowed an hour off per week from my pupilmaster duties. Understand?’
‘Yes, Mr Skylar,’ I pant.
‘Richard,’ he states. ‘And the last thing… when it comes to pupillage, know this – there is no such thing as a stupid question. Got it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good!’ he booms.
Skylar then gives me a very quick tour of Chambers, introducing me to about twenty people. I grin stupidly while he tells me all of their names (which I instantly forget). He then tells me that, as a pupil, it is tradition for me to complete a ritual at the start of the day. I wonder what this can be, until it becomes clear when we enter the kitchen.
‘Right, mine is big, black and very hot,’ Skylar states.
‘Sorry?’ I reply, wondering if I’ve heard right.
‘Coffee. Every morning. It’s tradition for the pupil to make all the barristers a hot drink,’ he reveals.
Surely he can’t mean everyone?
‘And yes, I do mean everyone,’ he says, as if reading my mind. ‘Although given that we have taken two pupils this year, your duty will be shared.’
I still haven’t met the new pupil. Richard says he is starting today, too, and so I should try and meet him. His pupilmaster is Gene Dolus, aka Mr Rude from my pupillage interview.
Lucky him.
Time ticks on and we leave Chambers at about 9.15 a.m. and walk to the Crown Court.
Newcastle Crown Court is a splendid building located right on the Quayside. The best thing about it is the glass lift which travels up and down the exterior, which we run into after going through security. As it ‘pings’ to the second floor, everyone exits and hurriedly marches to the Robing Room.
The Robing Room is a large changing room where barristers put their robes on ready for court. Wooden lockers surround the walls; wigs, gowns and collars are strewn haphazardly around the place.
Upon entering, the scattering of barristers turns to look at us as we walk to Skylar’s locker. There’s a main top table, occupied by several barristers, already robed. They look like the ‘cool gang’ every college and school has, and which I have never been a part of. A mixture of men and women, their voices lower as we unpack our things. They are shameless in their nosiness; peering over, laughing, blatantly staring.
‘Richard,’ I whisper, ‘why are they all staring at you?’
Skylar laughs. ‘They’re not staring at me, they’re staring at you,’ he says, wrenching his folders out of his suitcase.
‘Me? Why? What have I done?’
Skylar turns to me. ‘You’re “fresh meat”. They’re intrigued. They’ll all want to get to know you for different reasons, very quickly. Happens to all pupils, especially female ones. Just be aware of it.’
Like I didn’t feel exposed enough today. Why isn’t there a lecture on this at law school?
Skylar tells me he expects me to robe, too, which I do, hardly containing my excitement. I must look like a complete novice because, despite practising at home, I still take ten times longer than everyone else.
What do I do with my hair, though?
I’ve practised this so many times at home and thought it looked okay, but now, in the cold light of day, surrounded by other real barristers, I look naïve and silly. The wig is suddenly a very foreign object to me and I don’t know how to handle it, much as childless women hold newborns at arm’s length with a look on their faces that screams ‘WHAT DO I DO WITH IT NOW? TAKE IT AWAY, PLEASE’. It’s taken on a life of its own, much like an excited hamster or something, and I begin to hate the goddamn thing. However I put it on, it looks utterly ridiculous.
Skylar eventually becomes impatient, telling me to stop ‘fannying’ with it and get a move on as we have to go meet his client.
All morning is spent running between courts, the cells, clients and other barristers. Everyone is always in such a hurry and I start thinking seriously about going to the gym and investing in some sensible heels. But the barristers look so dramatic running past. It’s something about their cloaks billowing behind them, like watching a legal pop video with a wind machine… it’s all very theatrical. But before I know it, it’s lunchtime.
Thank God, a breather!
I nip to the loo, which I have been dying to do for the last three hours, without daring to ask if I could go. That’s another thing; going to the toilet when you’re fully robed is quite the chore. Suddenly have all the sympathy for brides on their wedding day. And is it necessary to take your wig off? Physically not, but it just feels weird to be weeing with a seventeenth-century horsehair wig on your head. Almost like I should be pulling a super-snooty historical face as I’m doing it, not checking my smartphone for WhatsApp messages.
Yes, welcome to my new, amazing life.
As I walk out of the loos, I find myself in the middle of a very awkward scene.
A very tall, slim, female barrister is standing in the middle of the otherwise empty Robing Room having a stand off with someone. Her
