Good Grief

I’ve been kind of running with the emotions that in the early days following Frank’s death I didn’t know I was capable of experiencing. I spoke to my brother the day after Frank departed, and he told me that I would be in shock for at least six months, and that I wouldn’t realise it until it went away. He is no stranger to grief: his eldest daughter died in front of his eyes at the age of ten. What a horribly tragic family we turned out to be. I admire the way that he carried, and still carries his grief. I don’t know if this is true, but I have very little memory of the weeks after Frank died, and that wasn’t entirely wine related. Honestly. I remember and rehearse the day that Frank died daily. It’s a day that I would prefer not to remember, particularly because I fear the effect the 28^th November 2012 has had, and may continue to have, on the boychild. That’s not to say that I am not concerned with the Twinset, but they weren’t there and haven’t found themselves in a hormone charged female household without notice.

I talked to each of the kidlets about bereavement counselling. Independently they looked at me devoid of credulousness: why would they want to talk to a stranger about what happened? I was pressed by a very kind friend who is a trustee of a local charity that helps children who have lost loved ones. Kate asked why would she want to hang out with kids when the only thing they had in common was that their dads were dead. I couldn’t fault her logic.

Jack does appear to be normal, whatever that epithet means. He proved on holiday recently that he’s more than capable of driving me to distraction when it suits him. He gets angry with me at times. While sunning ourselves in Sardinia he asked me if dad had wanted to go to Italy, and I told him that he did. We planned to go, but for reasons I was unable to identify, we never did. Jack was angry with me for taking us to a destination that we should have gone with dad. It was always my responsibility to book holidays, and although I sought approval Frank would always ask me, usually on the way to the departure gate, where is it we're going again? I pointed out to Jack that there were (gloriously for me) no English accents pervading the beach, no karaoke, no quizzes or fish n chips, and asked if he thought his dad would be enjoying this holiday. He replied – no, he’d be bored shitless. I normally take issue with the Little Darlings uttering profanity on the grounds that if they know how much I swear it means they’ve hacked my email or facebook. On this occasion he was fucking spot on.

Bugger – this was meant to be a happy holiday related post. I wasn’t brave enough to take the kidlets abroad alone, and was lucky enough to join forces with a friend who was taking her two daughters, friends of the Twinset, to Sardinia. We kinda invited ourselves along. Emma proved to be first class company. She loved supermarket shopping as much as Frank did, and assembled some fabulous mozzarella and cold meat meals. This led to Eve developing a mozzarella addiction – she was on three balls a day by the time we left. Not quite a ten quid bag, but nevertheless... Happily doses of Tesco value mozzarella has been for Eve more subutex than methadone to a smack head. It’s also handy going away with a multi-lingual buddy who also engages in irresponsible drinking and smoking. I am now able to order una litro casa blanco vino per fervore. As the holiday progressed it seemed to me that Italian is largely a mixture of French and Spanish with an “o” on the end. Being a consummate mime artist helped with other interactions with confused locals. I am pleased to report that I won the prize for being the most drunken and embarrassing parent. That at least was consistent with previous family holidays.

Our local was reminiscent of home: full of gossiping middle aged men. Every afternoon. Frank would have felt quite at home there had he been fluent in Italian. For fear of being characterised a dirty old woman, I have to report that there were some fabulous views of delicious young Italian men. Emma and I were taken by how cultured they seemed. One evening we were utterly absorbed by two men, probably in their late twenties, enjoying a meal together. They were sharing a bowl of mussels, drinking vino and talking. We agreed that it would be unlikely to see a similar sight in the bars of Exeter, even if anything other than ham, egg and chips was on the menu. Then, as we were gazing, their mains appeared, and simultaneously Emma and I said dreamily, “they’re having another course…” I’m probably revealing too much about the sad git I’ve become.

I did wonder what the other guests made of us – two forty-something women with five children. Did they speculate whether we were a couple of lesbians that had played fast and loose with a turkey baster? 

I am pleased to report that another in a series of new experiences without Frank, the Goddards, with some much appreciated help, have delivered once again.

Word of the day: disingenuous

Last night I medicated my frustrations with a bout of irresponsible alcohol intake. This evening I’m trying to write it off. My sense of utter frustration at the Ministry of Dwindling Justice’s proposals to introduce price competitive tendering in the criminal justice system is now mirrored by the process of selling and buying a property. Both matters have been foist upon me in quick succession. Yesterday I met up with an old friend who I haven’t seen in person for over fifteen years. He was a pupil barrister while I was establishing myself in the murky world of prison law. We tried briefly, over a pint, to identify the silver cloud in my husband’s sudden death last year. The fact that he knew nothing about it was all we could muster. The bright side of the PCT proposals is the magnificent wit, eloquence and insight published daily on faceache and twatter by lawyers. They make me proud to be a member of the legal profession. For the time being.

Meanwhile, having overcome the bank’s computer refusing to offer me a substantially lower mortgage than I have currently, I viewed a property that I believe could prove to be a home for me, but more importantly the boychild and twinset. According to the Daily Fail I am a fat cat lawyer on £200 per hour. Perhaps the journalist can disclose evidence of this to my bank manager because I'm buggered if I can. I naively calculated the sum I would be able to invest partly on the basis of sums owed to Frank’s estate following his retirement from a firm of solicitors shortly before his death. Although an agreement had been reached while Frank’s heart was still beating that the outstanding sum would be paid in monthly installments, I rather assumed that his former partners of over approaching thirty years, some of whom I have considered friends over the years, would want my children to  have a secure home. Wrong again. I should have known better than to ask. I was briefly a partner of the firm having worked for them for five years. Nearly thirteen years ago when the twinset were born prematurely at twenty-six weeks and looked distinctly like something from the X Files, I was informed by another partner’s wife that I would be relocated to an office some thirty miles from my home when I returned from maternity leave. You can feel the love, right? Because of Frank's position as an equity partner I chose not to pursue an application for constructive dismissal. I regret very little, but I now regret that.

I am consequently finding it increasingly difficult to care anymore. I still care about the effective delivery of justice, but in all honesty I am struggling to give a shit about individual clients. It is harder to sympathise with clients who assume that amongst my arsenal of solicitor weaponry is a magic wand and crystal ball than it was in the past. As a representative of mostly indeterminate prisoners, I tend to act for clients over many years. One such client who was embarking on a mandatory life sentence at a time I could get away with wearing tight tops and short skirts, wrote to me recently to inform me that it was our seventeenth anniversary. During a brief spell in the community he invited me to his wedding. A bond develops in professional relationships that can span decades. There can't be many lawyers that have received congratulations cards on the birth of your babies, and condolences cards on the death of your spouse from murderers, rapists and the like. Oh and the Parole Board. In the face of losing my career, I am struggling to assemble any enthusiasm for going the extra mile.

Today I feel defeated by disingenuousness: the falsehoods issued by Chris Grayling and Daily Fail journalists; and recalling the correspondingly insincere “if there’s anything I can do” from the mouth of Frank’s former managing partner at the time of his funeral.  Sigh.

Computer says no

It was bound to happen sooner or later – an angry post about the process of moving home and miscellaneous matters. I’ve finally found someone foolish enough to buy the money pit, the abode Frank and I believed would be our last home. He was right and I was wrong. Again. In any event, Team Goddard are moving on with a mixture of excitement and sadness. Boychild is finding it hard to get his head around the idea that leaving Goddard Towers does not mean leaving his dad. It does however mean leaving the remains of more pets than I could shake a stick at, but I won’t go back there, except to report that the hamster with no name is no more. The Twinset by comparison are eagerly awaiting a small but perfectly formed home that they won’t be embarrassed to invite their friends to. You can please some of the people some of the time, and all that.

Despite what his grandparents think, Boychild is a thoughtful child, frequently questioning the world around him, but not always particularly considerate. He won’t admit it to me because he is aware of my evangelical atheism, but he seems to be toying with the idea of letting God into his life. I don’t push my beliefs, or lack thereof, on the Little Darlings and simply tell them when they’ve been around the block a few times they can make their own minds up. I’m far too lazy to do it for them. I’m a follower of the Marcus Brigstocke view of religion, and consider that children can no more be  Christians than members of the Postal Workers Union. Boychild was recently overheard saying to one of his religious friends that “I’m purer than my sisters because my mum and dad were married when they made me.” I was so proud of his mathematical ability.

In any event, after five months of running around the house madly making beds, hiding dirty underwear, and putting toilet seats down before leaving for the school run I can sit back and relax. Or that’s what I naively thought. I found a potential new base of operations for Team Goddard, persuaded grumpy to lend me the deposit, and made an appointment to see the bank manager to arrange a new mortgage. Computer says no you can’t borrow £100,000 less than you currently owe us because you don’t have signed off accounts for your first year of trading, even though you bank with us, and we know exactly what you earned over this period. You also have too much access to credit, and even though you asked us to cancel your overdraft facility, and your loan will be repaid from the proceeds of sale, the computer still says a resounding no. I say, no fucking wonder there is a banking and housing crisis. By comparison to the banker (yes I did say banker – this time) HMRC are a bunch of fluffy kittens.

The British, or at least the English have no bollocks. When anyone with any degree of authority says it has to be so, we sit back and accept it. We may write or share angry posts on our faceache pages, but deep down believe it’s futile. I may have mentioned that the Ministry of Justice, led by Mr Failing Grayling, is intending to introduce price competitive tendering into the criminal justice system. Did I mention a petition? Everyone I know that has a vested interest has informed the Ministry in every possible way that the proposals are misconceived, based on out of date costs figures, unworkable and will lead to wasted court time with defendants representing themselves, costs to the public purse for inevitable miscarriages of justice, and the unemployment of solicitors, paralegals and support staff casting their burden on the State as a consequence of the hundreds of firms that will close.

On the Today Programme on Radio Four this morning the snivelling prefect incumbent Chancellor spoke of the need for the various Ministries to make savings. Much in the same way that I know that my current mortgage is unsustainable and am trying to take steps to reduce it, I accept the Government’s need to reduce public spending. It’s not what is being said that is bothering me, it’s what is not being said. He referred to prisoners receiving legal aid to make complaints about the treatment they receive in prison when they should be using the Prison Service’s complaint’s service. The truth is that there has been no public funding available for prisoners to complain about their treatment by the Prison Service since 2008. Yes it is possible to apply for funding to help illiterate or mentally ill prisoners to navigate a complaints system which invariably ends with the Governor’s computer saying no. I once applied for funding to assist a prisoner with learning difficulties to complain about being bullied by a prison officer and the computer at the Legal Aid Agency said no. To avoid disappointment I haven’t bothered asking since. I also saw Osborne on Breakfast Beeb this morning justifying the cuts to public sector budgets by pointing to the fall in crime rates despite the cuts to the Police Service. What he neglected to mention is that the Police are not arresting or charging nearly as many people, and the CPS are not proceeding with nearly as many prosecutions. Not only has this lead to a significant reduction in claims against the legal aid fund, it is leading to the guilty going free. One of my firm's clients was recently caught fair and square on CCTV committing an assault. It should have been a fair cop – he was after all bang to rights. He would have been advised to plead guilty if the computer at the CPS hadn’t said, no, it’s not in the interests of justice to prosecute. Really? Perhaps the next time he twats someone the computer might reconsider. Perhaps the bank will be persuaded to look at the detail of my mortgage application. I’m not holding my breath.

I had intended to spend today reflecting on the fact that Frank is now six months dead to the day. I wanted to feel sad, but I'm just sad that I feel so fucking angry.

http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/48628

Dead and Buried

There’s been an unfortunate number of deaths in the Goddard household of late. Boychild’s guinea pig, Norman, died last weekend. Twin One’s guinea pig, Humphrey, popped his clogs just before Christmas. This was swiftly followed by Shakira the dwarf Chinese hamster, and the replacement miniature Russian critters are missing, presumed dead, having escaped from the wrong sort of cage. Who knew? This leaves us with two cats, Holly and Jess, Fat Elvis (surviving guinea pig), and the hamster with no name. I think Twin Two decided there’s not much point in naming a pet when it will may well croak in the foreseeable. 

When I noticed that Norman was feet up in the run on Saturday morning I swiftly put him in a shoe box in the shed in order to ensure that Boychild didn’t happen upon him. He was very fond of the little feller, and Norman tolerated Boychild taking him on trips in his Tonka trucks. I’m sorry to say that in my haste I forgot to cover Norman, and only remembered that I had left him in plain sight on Monday morning during the school run. I also remembered, with a titanic sinking feeling, that a house viewing was scheduled an hour later. I needed to get to work, so I debated whether the sight of a dead guinea pig would be off putting to a would-be buyer. I decided that it wasn’t worth leaving this to chance – there’s enough to put off potential purchasers in Casa Goddard - without stumbling upon a deceased animal. I was late for work.

I forgot to mention Mildred, a cat who adopted us, and Frank took something of a shine to without ever admitting it on account of the fact that he HATED cats. During one of my moments of rage in the days following Frank's death, and during funeral planning I considered the Cats Protection League for charitable donations: that'll learn the fucker for dying on me. He cooked her prime chicken breasts and tuna protesting that it had to be eaten or it would go off (in five days’ time). She had been a stray and was very skinny when she arrived. We assumed that the weight she was gaining was a consequence of her fine dining, but then realised that she was pregnant. She gave birth to Bob, Lady Gaga, Cheryl Cole, Richard and Napoleon Dynamite. In any event, shortly after Frank’s death and the realisation that she would eat cat food or go hungry she did one.

These recent events brought to mind an incident two years ago in the dying days of the school holidays. My neighbour called and said that there was a dead ginger cat in her garden, and thought it might be Holly. I duly identified the departed animal, wrapped it in a sheet and brought it back to our garden. I broke the news to the Little Darlings, and they sobbed in a group huddle, back in the day when the death of a pet was really upsetting. I suggested a funeral, and we picked a spot under an apple tree for Holly to rest in peace, mostly from Boychild’s nurf wars. The grave was dug, a box of Whiskers at the ready for sustenance as she went on the journey to meet her maker. As I was about to place the bundle in the grave, the Little Darlings asked if they could see Holly one last time. I pulled back the sheet and exposed the statuesque creature. The children exclaimed, in unison: “That’s not our cat!” and, as if by magic, Holly walked nonchalantly past us. Oops. 

What’s the point of this post? I’m not sure. Boychild was sad when I told him about Norman, but not very sad. Death has a curious way of putting things in perspective, and I am now a firm believer in the maxim “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I’m still fucking angry about the Government’s proposals to murder the criminal justice system, but I know Team Goddard will be well.

My Proposal

In the light of the PCT proposals which have been subject to a robust impact analysis (can you feel the irony jumping out of the internet and giving you a big sloppy kiss?), I have decided to conduct a social experiment with the Little Darlings. This will, I trust, provide empirical evidence for the Ministry of (dwindling) Justice if they decide to contemplate the consequences of PCT before imposing it on us.

This weekend, when it comes to doling out the household assignments (in return for paper folding currency) I shall abandon my tried and tested method of assigning tasks on the basis of aptitude, experience and enthusiasm, in favour of price competitive tendering. Twin One generally elects to do the Saturday morning Tesco run for the egg and bacon brunch. She likes spending other people’s money, is motivated to attend to the task in good time since she loves a bacon butty, and can simultaneously listen to pop music on her iPod without me screeching at her to “turn it down”. Twin Two prefers less strenuous tasks. She likes washing up. Well that is overstating the case - If she wants money she would prefer to stand still with her hands in hot water, achieving very little over an overly long period of time (shall we call her the CPS?). Boychild’s preferred little earner is to take the rubbish bags out to the back gate. This was his father’s job, and he seems to feel some pride in a man-of-the-house activity. In any event, the Little Darlings are fairly content with this arrangement, and generally carry out their obligations to the household with little complaint.

This weekend however I am introducing competition in order to make savings to my purse of at least 17.5% whilst simultaneously encouraging productivity and sustainability. I am going to ensure that the tasks are carried out to the same standard enjoyed under the previous system: I will scrutinise their every move and carry a big stick whilst doing so. Or perhaps I will employ a child minder to do this for me, and deduct his or her wages from the Little Darling’s money. I normally give them a fiver each, and Twin One gets to keep the change from the shopping on account of, shall we call it – travelling expenses. Some parents may think that I am rewarding them handsomely for fairly straightforward tasks they are familiar with. I can afford it (at present) and it seems to me fair when one takes into account the cost of sweets, music and game downloads and sundry merchandise.

I’m not going to tell them about my plan until it’s too late for them to come up with a reasoned objection, alternative proposal, or to stop bickering for long enough to unite against me. They will each be required, if they wish to continue to receive funds, to make an offer for the task they wish to perform. They will need to be prepared to do their jobs for at least 17.5 % less than they are currently receiving, and if one or all of them would like to earn more (on an economy of so called scale), they must ensure that their bid undercuts their sibling’s best offer. And the supplement for the Tesco run will no longer be available.

I am confident that the outcome of this experiment will be that they decide that it’s just not worth their while. There is a remote possibility that they will give the new system a go because some money is better than no money. Since they will be remunerated significantly less, I doubt very much that they will put a great deal of effort into it.  It seems more likely to me that, while the Little Darlings will consider the good these small deeds do for the household, they will conclude that if you can’t even afford a bar of chocolate and Taylor Swift’s latest download, well, what’s the point.

Of course, pretty soon we'll all starve - if the rats don't eat us first - but the important thing is that the public (i.e. my) purse will look reassuringly full.
 

www.epetitions.gov.uk/petitions/46828

I have read with interest numerous blog posts since the so called “consultation” on PCT was unveiled prematurely and ill advisedly. I wholeheartedly agree with the ponderings of fellow professionals in the criminal justice system. The only feature of the call to arms that I depart from to some extent is the ethos that we must emphasise the cost to justice and the public, and ignore the very real consequences in the personal lives of so very many solicitors and barristers. When cuts have been made in the NHS and to benefits for the elderly and disabled, the human cost in the quality (or otherwise) of the lives of those affected is at the forefront of the opposition. 

This is of course quite right. I feel utter horror at the implications for those on the wrong side of the criminal justice system, and what will amount to the end of justice being even seen to be done, let alone actually being done. I have read many perfectly reasoned, researched and argued pieces about this monumental issue, and I therefore leave well alone. I don’t believe that I can reasonably add anything of significance.

I do want to emphasise that solicitors and barristers have been practicing in this field have continued to do so  not because we are self-interested money grabbing bastards.. It is a vocation on the same level, I believe as teaching, nursing and caring and the like. It is unfortunate that all solicitors and barristers are thought of as swimming in the same pond. We in the criminal justice system who probably earn less than the average primary school teacher (I know I do right now) are being judged by the same standards as partners of international commercial law firms that are doing very well, thank you nicely.

I’m not ashamed of saying that my first reaction at reading the PCT document was “fuck – I’m going to lose my ability to earn a living and support my three children, doing a job I’ve been doing for the last seventeen years, which I mostly enjoy, and frankly am really pretty good at.” The implications for the justice system as a whole and what it means for the country were secondary. But there you are, I’m just a self-interested bar steward in the eyes of the Daily Fail reading public.

It is possible to be motivated by more than one concern, but  that solicitors and barristers are neglecting to point out the personal devastation that will be a consequence of PCT. We are not the lawyers living in country estates or penthouse apartments. We – well I – will be casting our burdens on the state. I can only speak for myself, but I’ve had a gutsful of trying to defend the work that I do in defending the most vulnerable in society, and earning just about enough to pay the mortgage and take care of my little darlings.

I guess I picked another bad day to give up drinking

I appear to have mislaid my sense of humour and I doubt very much that I will rediscover it for some time, if ever. If this post raises the most wry of smiles my amazement will be second only to my current sense of utter despair. The joy of the news of the demise of Thatcher has now passed. I shall rejoice no more. Well perhaps a little on the day of that funeral.

I spent this morning reading the Criminal Legal Aid Best Value Tendering "consultation" document. I should have known better and heeded one of my partner's advice to, instead, stick my head firmly in the sand, or if none is available, up the anus of the nearest Tory politician since I'm depressed enough already. The document brought to mind the last time that BVT was mooted in 2009, I think, and the President of the Criminal Law Solicitors Association put the British criminal justice system on ebay with a reserve of £1. Honestly he did. Perhaps this inspired our incumbent Government to invite bids from criminal law practitioners to enter into a similar auction - "I'll raise you a police station interview for your two committals for sentence."

There has been no increase in legal aid rates for criminal defence work for the last fifteen years, and there have been significant cuts. Nevertheless the government expect us to pitch our bids at at least 17.5% below the current fees. This is, apparently, to ensure that criminal defence work is sustainable. I'm not sure our bank manager would agree.

I read and re-read the section on the number of contracts that we will be in a position to bid for. Then I rang a colleague who I knew had also read the document in the hope that I had misunderstood these provisions. There are currently 1600 providers of criminal defence services in England and Wales. The number of contracts that will be awarded to those that can afford to stoop to even lower profitability is 400. I hadn't misread it. In Manchester there are currently 137 providers, and this will be reduced to 37. In Devon and Cornwall, my area of practice, 10 contracts will be handed out. In Exeter alone there are currently 6 providers. 

The document also encourages bids from organisations outside of the legal profession who can then subcontract the work to "real" solicitors. If we weren't such a hated profession I suspect that Tesco would put in a bid. Actually, I can see the advert: "Nicked? Every Little Helps. And it will be little help since there will be no incentive to do a good job for a client when a good reputation means absolutely nothing. It seems to me that the only possible way that most criminal defence solicitors can stay in business is to merge with other firms. This is laughable. In my firm there are four partners, and it took us at least three hours to agree on the colour of our logo. The sorry fact of the matter is that we appear to thrive on loathing other each other; exulting in other's misfortune; and luxuriating in being chosen by a prolific criminal over another firm. We are professional bitches. It is extremely sad that the divide and conquer philosophy that I believe was expounded so successfully under Thatcher, is (happily unlike her) alive and well today, and is likely to underpin the cull of numerous firms across this country and effective criminal defence for the innocent and guilty alike. 

If we do somehow survive the bidding contest there will be no reason to crow about being the king cock of the Magistrates' Court since the punters will not be able to choose who represents them. I promise I'm not making this up. When an individual is arrested the case will be allocated to a solicitor on the basis of either the initial of his or her surname,  or their date of birth. If the matter proceeds to trial, and solicitor and client despise each other, they are stuck together, for better or worse. Is that justice being seen to be done, one of the fundamental principles of British justice?

I am not in any way expecting or attempting to illicit any sympathy. There are far more deserving cases being shat on from a great hight by Dave and his pals. When the disabled, the elderly and sick children are getting a much less fragrant end of the stick I offer the following advice: don't, above all else, get caught.