of course!” She laughs at her joke, “He left pretty early this morning to meet a new doctor at the surgery.”
Dad is a golf fanatic. He tried to make me play once, convinced it would increase my ‘networking opportunities.’ I did try to explain to him that most criminals don’t play golf and most criminal solicitors don’t have the time to, but he was adamant. We arrived at the driving range, bought a bucket of balls each and got set to see who could whack one the furthest. After dad had hit an impressive drive, it was my go. I‘d tried to copy what he had done, stood side on to the ball and imagined I was back on the school hockey team. Dad had lent me one of his clubs that he promised would do the job due to some random American technology that had been employed to produce it. He was very proud of his kit and had spent God knows how much acquiring the perfect set of clubs; his driver was his baby.
As I closed my eyes and swung, expecting to feel the clink of metal on the ball I was sorely disappointed to connect with a wholly different surface. When I opened my eyes I saw my father looking at me with a mixture of amazement and fury. I looked down to see the ball still on its tee, the club still in my hands. I looked at my dad in confusion.
“What happened?”
“You happened!” he’d cried back at me.
“What? How?” I had picked up the club and inspected the base and immediately spotted a huge dent that definitely wasn’t there to start with. My father was not impressed.
“Thank you Lauren. Do you have any idea how much that club cost? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t designed for being smacked into the floor!”
Ah. Right. Maybe I should have had my eyes open then.
It seems no matter what I do, it’s never quite good enough for my dad. You’d think that me being a ‘high-flying’ criminal barrister would be something he could brag about to his doctor friends, but no. He’s never quite gotten over the fact that I never excelled during my science GCSE’s, thus making me ineligible to follow in his medic shaped footsteps. I’m sure he wishes he has a son to work alongside, but I’m afraid he’s stuck with little old me.
I finish the flapjack and wash it down with the rest of my tea. Sebastian refuses to have Earl Grey in the house on the basis that it “Tastes like washing up liquid.”
“Right mum, I’d better make a move, I have to pop into Chambers to pick up my work for Monday.”
She looks at me in horror.
“What, on a Saturday evening?”
“Mum, you know how it works!”
She’s never quite got her head round the fact that my job isn’t quite a nine to five. I’m used to it now, finishing in court at 5pm and then picking up my briefs for the day after. I’ve officially declared Saturday a day of rest; I absolutely refuse to even look at my work until Sunday. Sadly, that still means I have to collect my papers at some point between Friday afternoon and Sunday night.
Normally Friday is a write-off given my not unrealistic fear that I will leave the reams of confidential documents somewhere when I’m in a drunken stupor. It’s happened to barristers before. All hell breaks loose when the clerks realise that their carefully crafted briefs have disappeared somewhere between a strip club and a late night Thai restaurant. It’s really not worth the trouble.
Well make sure you’re not working too hard. You are looking a little pale at the moment dear.”
“No need to worry on that score mum. I’ll just get another San Tropez.”
To her credit, my mum nods knowledgeably.
“Fair enough. Make sure you call me in the week.”
I smile and give her another hug. “Say hello to dad for me and make sure you look after Siddy.”
On cue, the little bundle of fluff wanders over, sniffing for flapjack crumbs. I scoop him up in my arms and bury my face in his soft fur. He smells of freshly cut grass and dog biscuits. I gently place him back on the ground and give him another stroke. Mum opens the front door and smiles at me.
“Take care sweetheart and make sure you eat plenty of fruit and vegetables.”
I consider this.
“As long as fermented grapes count then I’m sorted!”
We both laugh and I walk down