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.

Ten Points of a Learning Curve

In my previous post I said that death is a learning curve. Here's a, non-exhaustive, list of what I've learnt, in no particular order:

1. Friends are immeasurably more important than family. I hope you know who you are, and that you make the difference between existing and living.
2. Putting the rubbish out is a pain in the arse. There is a gap in the employment market for a Putteroutoftherubbish.
3. The putrefying bag of green liquid in the bottom drawer of the fridge that I believe was once broccoli, and I strongly suspect may have been Frank's last purchase of a vegetable nature, will not clean itself up. 
4. The cats are decidedly happier in the depths of so called Spring not to be chased out of the house. 
5. Frank had many qualities, but sadly the panache of a Greek Cypriot politician in matters financial.
6. Checking tyre pressures and filling the screen wash isn't actually that big a deal.
7. One I learnt from Eve, via an eves-dropping friend - "your dad dying is like your cat dying, except much, much, much worse."
8. For the very many people that have said to me over the last four months "I don't know what to say", I still haven't worked out the correct response. 
9. Even nice estate agents occasionally deserve to be slapped simply for being estate agents.
10. Just because you lose your husband, don't expect anyone to show you mercy in Words With Friends. Actually, bad choice of word. I didn't lose him since that implies that I might find him again, and in the manner of Lady Bracknell suggests some negligence on my part. I accept full responsibility for losing Kate's locker keys and the car log book, but I refuse to accept that I lost Frank.  He didn't, in American vernacular, "pass" either. Frank passed his Law Society Finals (just), and a great deal of urine, but not to another level of existence. Did I mention that he bloody well died?

A Note From a Bad Widow

I'm not too sure where to start with this post. Spouse didn't like me sharing personal shit on tinternet, especially fb, but he leaned to live with it, and anyway, he doesn't have to any more. One of his most repeated jokes was why do men die before women? Because they can. I'm very tempted to have this emblazoned on his memorial.

While friends with religious faith have been very kind and prayed for us, Spouse's death has only served to reinforce my evangelical atheism. If any person is able to explain to me how three children losing their father is part of His master plan then I may reconsider. I don't believe that he is still with us in any sense, apart from in the characteristics, and ideosyncracies that he's passed on to our children, and in our memories. 

Kate has his stoicism: when I would wind myself up about something, he would just shrug his shoulders and take a highly practical approach to an issue. Kate has been much the same since she lost her dad. One of her first worries was that Frank always did the "big" food shop in our house, because I would end up engaging my tried and tested, anger management strategy of trolley-barging if there were more than two people walking slowly in front of me. She confided her concern in a friend of mine, and "you shop, we drop" was the solution. She also asked me if I would pay my parking fines off quickly because dad used to get really mad when I left them until the Summons arrived on the doormat. I was touched that she also has Spouse's expectation management qualities, and doesn't think, for a moment, that I'm capable of parking legally all the time, much in the same way that Spouse knew that he could only ask me not to get "too pissed" on a Friday evening.

Eve has Spouse's creative abilities. He excelled in the blokeness code of conduct never to follow instructions. He liked to make things up, and this included his approach to cooking with mixed results. Eve is the same - the word "recipe" is not in her vocabulary. It's comforting to know that unusual combinations of food-stuffs, like marmite and marmalade because they both begin with an "m" will still be consigned to the bin.

I suppose I shouldn't really refer to Frank as Spouse any longer. As Jack keeps pointing out, we're a single parent family now, and he is the man of the house. The first responsibility of the man of the house is ownership of the remote control. Strangely, I'm struggling with the ugliness of the word "widow" as much as I am the ironically euphemistic term "passed away." And I've derived far too much pleasure pointing out that he didn't pass away, he bloody well died, mostly to call centre staff. I'm very sorry to all the Indian call centre staff that I've taken my rage out on, but since they seem to be unable to accept that Frank is actually still dead since the last time I informed them, I can't seem to help myself. It occurs to me that a death certificate is not sufficient and I will continue to receive post addressed to Frank until they see his smouldering ashes sailing down the Ganges.

With death comes a learning curve. Learning not to have someone to piss you off because they haven't put the rubbish out is just as hard as not having your confident in chief always at the ready. But I'm learning to live with it. Jack keeps telling me to join match.com and get another husband. It's refreshing how simple life is when you're nine. I didn't try explaining the fact that I have more baggage than a Saudi family at Heathrow Airport. He has plenty of time to work that one out. 

Frank's Eulogy by Gareth Evans

 

(As best as I can remember it. Apologies for any omissions/additions, as I wanted to say so much more.)

“I have been told that I am limited, as far as time is concerned, to two and a half minutes. Well, in a room full of lawyers this will be a lawyer's two and a half minutes!

Two days ago I was musing what I might say about Frank when a random thought popped into my head. Oh God I've still got Frank's boots! These are Frank's boots, (as an aside for the Doubting Thomas' they really were Frank's  boots).  I borrowed them in early December last year for a fancy dress party, and I never got to give them back.

As I was wondering how I was going to deal with that it occurred to me that I might be able to make use of them as a prop for this occasion. The more I thought about it the more apposite I decided it was.

These boots are Doc Marten's. In my teenage years they were worn by skinheads and thugs. Frank, had a certain thuggish appearance. But appearances can be, and in Frank's case certainly were, deceptive. The best example I can give of how a stranger might perceive Frank at first blush was when Frank was visiting Exeter prison, and as Frank was leaving he heard a voice call out, “Oy, where the xxxx do you think you're going Sunshine?"  It took Frank a minute or two to explain to the prison officer that he wasn't an inmate trying a bold attempt at escape but rather a local solicitor who had been on a legal visit.

These boots are highly polished. So was Frank. Professionally respected by all who worked with him, against him, or people who Frank appeared in front of. Frank was a class act. A short while ago Frank was the Times Lawyer of the Week. Not something Frank would have told you, as another of his great attributes was his modesty.

They are of a generous size.  So was Frank. In Wild West parlance Frank was a man who cast a big shadow. But let's leave size to one side and concentrate on generous. Frank's generosity knew no bounds. Over the last two years or so Frank played a large part in raising between £2,500 and £3,000 for our local village hall fund. When I say our village hall it wasn't Frank's, he didn't live in our village. Frank would spend hours if not days of his own free time researching and preparing quizzes which he would then present. At no stage did he ask, nor would he have thought of asking, for any recompense for all those hours of his own time.

Another aspect of Frank's generosity which must be mentioned is the rugby. Initially at the County Ground and latterly at Sandy Park. Frank introduced me to Exeter Chiefs when they were at the County Ground. I looked forward to going and watching a good game of rugby. We didn't see much of the game as we stayed in the bar, and it was quite difficult to see the game through the window having to peer over the wall that was right outside and you could only see two thirds of the pitch anyway. Many a happy hour was spent at the ground with other people like Michael, Gavin and Jo.

The club then moved to Sandy Park and WBW invested in a box which led to Frank inviting many of the people in this room to attend and enjoy the comfort of the box. I recently read a very nice article/obituary about Frank which mentioned that Frank was a man who loved his rugby. I hope Nigel will forgive me but Frank didn't really love rugby; he loved the fellowship that existed on a rugby day out. I well remember during the first season at Sandy Park that it had to be gently pointed out to Frank that the team he was applauding for doing so well was the opposition and not Exeter, and that he really ought to learn the colour of the Chief's strip.

These boots are high in the leg; all embracing.  So was Frank, he was a friend to everyone. Just look around this room. And very rarely would you hear Frank utter a bad word about another human being.

The boots are tough. Frank came from a golfing dynasty. Not directly but through Jo. John, Frank's father-in-law, was a single-figure handicap golfer. Nick, Frank's brother-in-law used to play off scratch, too good to get any shots given to him. Frank?  Well, Frank was a crap golfer. But he loved it. Why tough?

Many of you may not know that in recent years Frank suffered terribly with arthritis. His left wrist was fully locked. It meant that if Frank misjudged a shot, which he often did, and his club hit the ground it caused him extreme pain. Notwithstanding that, Frank would always sign up for our golf-society days. He would turn-up, handover his money knowing that he could not win and that he would probably come last; and knowing that by the end of the round he would be in extreme pain. But, he persevered. He loved it for the fellowship of the day.

These boots are comfortable. I recently had cause to look up the definition of a gentleman. One of the definitions was, “A man in whose company other people feel comfortable". I need say no more than that.

Dry on the inside.  By way of a contrast rather than a similarity. I'm pleased to report that I spent many a happy hour/day in Frank's company when we were anything but dry on the inside. I know many others in this room who could say the same.

The last and best comparison. As we all know Doc Martens are famous for one thing more than any other. The size of the sole. Well, if a man's character is his soul then Frank had an immense soul.

Our thoughts must now turn to Jo, Kate, Eve and Jack.

If you'll forgive me I'll give my mate his boots back now.

 

Gareth Evans