Back when I started working at the Old Bailey last year, I wasn't assigned to a judge, unlike most of the other stenographers. This was standard as I was a newbie and it wasn't unenjoyable by any means, as it meant I got to work with loads of different people, visiting judges and the like, and essentially floated around like a big ball of typey joy.

Then in October I began sitting with a resident judge and ended up staying, because the trial was just so, so long. He'd begun clerking the judge in question at about the same time I started sitting with said judge and together with N*, our usher, the three of us worked together superbly (well, the Court Clerk and N* are fantastic and experienced at their jobs; I'm just the dumb girl who sits in court and feels like vomiting due to drinking spirits with her beer on a weeknight).

When we started working together I clicked with him instantly, felt comfortable around him and would talk to him about anything, often staying long after everyone else had gone, and would leave feeling elated.

I did fancy him, but kind of made myself not - if that makes any sense - because when you work so closely with someone (ie. spending a few hours a day sitting next to them. Five days a week. For six months) it's easier to maintain a professional and friendly relationship rather than risk making things awkward.

So I thought of him as a friend and believed he did of me. In fact I wasn't particularly bothered when he went on a few dates with a visiting judge's clerk. Well, there may have been a small amount of jealousy until he made a point of telling me he wasn't going to see her anymore.

It's my own stupid bloody fault...I think some of the signs were there and I ignored them entirely. Some of the looks he used to give me, things he'd write in notes we'd pass to one another when a tedious 300-page police interview was being recited in monotone, and some of the kind things he said about me to other people: "[He] said he really likes working with you!" another clerk announced to me last week, though she said it expressing surprise, as if I would usually come into court and kill puppies.

Of course I never really spoke about Gaz, but thanks to Facebook (other social networking sites are available) he knows about him, I've come across as deceitful - again, my own fault - and nothing will now happen between us.

Fucking hell, can I possibly talk about myself any more?

I think the moral of this sorry story is...fuck it, EPIC FAIL.

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