Shoot first, ask questions later

After a slight delay in the end of Semester 2, on account of two deferred exams, I was grateful to finally be on holidays. The post-exam high merged into the requisite two-week comedown. My days were spent feeling I should be studying, realising I had nothing to study for and then wondering how to fill my time. The nights were easy – a glass of wine (or two) to take the edge off the post-exam slump, in addition to trying to suppress trauma accumulated as the result of studying family law. Binning my well-worn, overly highlighted copy of the Domestic and Family Violence Act was cause for celebration. Unfortunately my celebratory drink was a tad pre-emptive. One phone call and the world of domestic violence became part of my reality.

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Sober Acting Drunk

Months of study meant that I was now well accustomed to student life. I awoke at 9am, giving me enough time to shower, brush my teeth and get to yoga. I’d spend the next hour stretching and de-stressing with the Mum Crowd. Having returned relatively unscathed from the school run, they’d tottle into the studio, clad from head to toe in Lorna Jane, peppered with inspirational quotes that just made me want to puke.

Actually, it may have been the lack of caffeine that led to my lack of tolerance – I’m not pleasant to be around when I’ve yet to ingest a soy latte.  And yes, I acknowledge the hypocrisy of being a yoga-attending, latte-drinking, Vespa owner who’s taking the piss out of the school mums for wearing Lorna Jane – but I’ve never proclaimed to be perfect.

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The First Lecture

It had arrived – my final day as a full time employee. I was so busy packing up my desk, I didn’t realise I’d had an epiphany until I’d already blurted it out loud.

‘Oh no! I have to be a professional lawyer from now on. That means I won’t be able to say the F word anymore!’

I’m a bit of a swearer. As far as I’m concerned the word sh!t isn’t even a swear word, it’s common vernacular for a crappy situation. Lucky to work in an office where swearing was the norm, I hadn’t considered Life After Rampant Profanity (or LARP, as it shall be known from hereon in).

My colleague laughed.

‘True. You’ll have to use the L word from now on.’

‘The L word?’


‘Oh, good point.’

And it was. I could tell someone to f*ck off. Or I could tell them I was going to litigate. Either way, they’d be sure to leave me alone. Law school may have its perks after all.

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