Do you know who I am!

I have two followers, and real live people are reading this. Thank you all, you're making me happier than I felt when I discovered the lie about power tools.

I'd like to tell you a bit about my job, but being a lawyer client confidentiality issues prevent me sharing some stories. I could tell you about the GT Memorial Coffee Machine, but then I'd have to kill you. If anyone from my firm is reading this, I'm sure you won't mind me saying that we're a bunch of missfits, a small but perfectly formed band of criminal defence solicitors, fighting the law and generally losing. If you do mind you can pelt with with elastic bands later. I stumbled upon this place after a three year maternity break when I could no longer contemplate another morning at the Church Hall singing Row row row your boat with the little darlings. Despite my father's attempts to invoke deep maternal guilt at being a "working mother", I cheerfully exchanged my vomit encrusted mummy uniform for a suit, and went back to work. I hear lots of stories about how women cry when leaving their offpsring at the nursery for the first time. Sure I was crying - tears of joy - with the timeless words of Martin Luther King resounding in my ears FREE AT LAST.... In fact the only emotion I felt remotely like guilt was that I felt no remorse at all.

So, I donned my suit, swapped a nappy bag for brief case, and reunited myself with the human race. I always wear suits to work, not because I think people take me more seriously in formal attire, but because of an incident, in the early days of my career, long before the little darling came along. I represent convicted prisoners, a dirty job I know but someone has to get those deviants back on the streets so that my criminal hack colleagues can represent them when they re-offend. I also enjoy being the sort of person that pisses off News of the (oh no, prisoners are allowed to breathe oxygen) World readers. Please stick with me, I am getting to the point. I went along to HM Prison Drake Hall, an open womens' establishment, to see a lady lifer client. It was a long journey so I dressed for comfort in jeans and t-shirt. After the visit had finished I walked out of the prison - no gates or walls in an open prison - towards my car. I became aware of someone running towards me, so I stopped and turned around, and a prison officer shouted at me, where the fuck do you think you're going! He had mistaken me for a con. There was one further incident when I was mistaken for a Probation Officer. Quite frankly this was more offensive, and I've power dressed ever since.

I must get back to the day job now, but hope to share some more tales from the criminal justice system later.