Life of a tiffstaff ... Bright, ambitious and, when it comes to the crucial things, hopeless ... Introducing Tippy, our new blogger filing from within the concrete cage at Queens Square
In the heart of a brutal concrete building in Queens Square, behind courtrooms boasting ‘70s decor-in-decline or the sleek lines of new millennium minimalism, an army of little helpers is performing a solemn morning rite: The Brewing of the Judicial Coffee.
Menial tasks are imbued with grave import when performed for judicial masters and mistresses.
The ceremonial scrubbing of HH’s breakfast bowl, encrusted with the stubborn remains of Bircher muesli (wise tipstaves tarry not over dishwashing, lest the milk sets like superglue), the hasty polishing of the silver tea service pre-11.30am adjournment, the lunchtime dash to David Jones Foodhall: part of the administration of justice, all.
Even the smell of burnt toast lingering in the chambers’ corridor has a whiff of prestige about it, I fancy.
And therein lies the attraction of this most curious of posts. Why (ostensibly) bright young graduates-at-law – future barristers, partners, politicians, along with feckless sorts like yours truly – clamour to don shapeless frock coats, stiff with the perspiration of scores of their predecessors, to spend a year of their prime acceding to judicial whim.
The prestige.
A clerkship in a top firm seems nasty and pedestrian in comparison, though it might help get one’s foot in the chamber’s door.
“So, you’re a manservant. Or a handmaiden, rather”, my pal James surmised recently over an unleisurely lunch at Silks.
We bonded in the Law School enrolment queue, united in dislike of a Commerce/Law boor who termed our choice of Arts “brave”.
J has given the profession the flick for the putatively greener pastures of management consulting.
It’s fair to say we’ve both sold out somewhat since the days of lolling on the Main Quad lawns, mocking undergraduate mooters and corporate cut-outs.
“Nay, Jimmy,” I counter coolly. “A glorified handmaiden.”
I reflect upon that crucial distinction as I drip coffee down the corridor back to chambers.
I may not buy wholly into the judicial mystique, but I will own that I milk the glory of the gig rather shamelessly.
To wit, I affix a pompous little signature block (“Tipstaff to The Hon …” etc) to the base of all my email correspondence, work-related or no.
I drop references to cases “We” heard and judgments “We” delivered into casual conversation with friends and family.
And I have cultivated a stately expression for use in the courtroom, seated on the bench to the left of HH, which I like to think bespeaks both piercing intelligence and a certain beneficent forbearance of fools.
It’s mostly in the eyebrows.
Occasionally I don’t quite pull it off. Yesterday I smacked myself in the forehead with the gilt-tipped staff, muffing the delicate courtroom manoeuvre that is Pushing In The Judicial Chair while gripping the staff in one hand.
The humiliation put me off my game somewhat. But it’s early days yet.
I remind myself of that bracing fact as I round the corner into chambers.
The Associate greets me with her customary lack of enthusiasm.
Like most of her ilk, she is apt to consider the fresh crop of up-starts to infiltrate the courts more puffed-up and lacking in life skills than the last. And there are some smug twats in our ranks, alas.
It’s lucky I’m so sharp.
As I raise my right hand to tap demurely on HH’s door, holding the coffee cup precariously aloft in my left, The Associate speaks.
I freeze, fist in mid-air.
“Didn’t Judge want tea?”