On Tuesday evening I was cordially invited (along with all the other court reporters, the rowdiest people of all!) to a "Judges Party" at the Waldorf Hotel. It was beautiful - like a massive ballroom from a period drama with a tinkly piano band. There was also neverending champagne and canapes so small that I actually mistook a very, very tiny pizza for a very, very, tiny cheese cracker. Which perhaps would have satisfied my appetite had I been a bluebottle fly. Of course we ended up drunk as Lords and the Lords ended up...oh, God knows. I woke up the next day with a twirly silver caviar spoon and a solicitor's phone number in my bag. I think it's safe to conclude it was a good night.

Moving on to matters of a judicial nature, it seems I completely underestimated The Barrister's intentions towards me. I thought he was only having a laugh, even over the past week when he was attempting to make eyes at me across the courtroom (in a murder trial...I mean, there's a time and a place!) so today I was slightly taken aback when he handed me his card with his phone number on it and a message scrawled on the back saying:

'Sara (sic), Will you please consider going for a drink with me at the end of the case. The Barrister.'

I would maybe have considered it, because it's not like I have men falling at my feet like a herd of fainting goats. But Eros is clearly enjoying having a chuckle at my expense, as I have been reliably informed that The Barrister is MARRIED WITH TWO CHILDREN. Not a winning recipe, it really isn't.

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