My day off was relatively mundane, except for the fact that I happened to stroll into town and in the course of my studying (for as Plutarch said of Scipio: he was never so busy as when he had nothing to do) at a local tavern (the 'battery farm drinkers' - normally I opt for a higher brow establishment, but being a law student and working full time means I am poor, naturally. This is Britain 2022, not Elizabethan England) Divine Providence ensured that I happened to cross paths with the luthier. It was nice to see him, for I haven't seen him in a while. We shared a drink (I, the finest Belgian ale, him, a lager of another kind, but certainly not the cheapest, as the man has good taste, if not excellent) and caught up. He welcomed me to his home where we played music together, and I thanked him for his hospitality.
The evening was uneventful.
The next day, I had to return to Hades, but enough of that for now. In my 'down' time (while not reading law), I am reading Stories of the Law (etc.) by the "Secret Barrister". Aside from learning some interesting and useful facts about being a barrister (the reality of which is far removed from mere theoretical works on the subject), I am becoming less and less enthused about becoming a barrister. It's not just the poor pay, the heavy work load, the extremely long hours, but it is the state of the UK's criminal justice system which concerns me. There is something good in all of this studying, though: inspiration for writing prose fiction (this being the literary Dark Ages means that prosaic fiction is rated far more highly than epic plays, magnificent poetry, or the works of Hesiod, Homer, Virgil or Ovid: this isn't the time of Lorenzo d'Medici in Florence: it's Dark Age Britain). Becoming a junior criminal barrister is for poor people (hence why they, like university lecturers and train drivers) are all on strike at the moment. I even read that they earn less than minimum wage, once expenses are factored in (this is written in the Secret Barrister's works). So what's the incentive? Well, there is none, almost. There is the fact that becoming a barrister (much like becoming a doctor) is a great honour. There is also a like similie that junior doctors, just like junior criminal barristers (in this country at least...) get shafted, financially.
Hades was... annoying. The simpleton from the village insists on doing his preposterous yardy pseudo-Jamaican accent the entire time. Some of what he says comes in the form of veiled threats. This has been going on for four... whole... days... now. According to the luthier (who used to live among ex-Jamaicans in London), it is unwise to put on such an accent. Not only is it very disrespectful, but it is also most impolite. One could very well land in hot water, so to speak, having used such an accent among ethnic minorities. It is incorrect. Yet more than that, the Londoner luthier told me why people do it: to (try and) make others fear them. The little boy doesn't scare me, and he certainly never addresses me in that accent (at least, when we are alone). It is always best to be one's self. I suspect that this young man's mind is beginning to unravel, and not in a good way.
Euclio has a new job. Well, his old job back, clothed in fresh garments, working under his old boss. I am happy for the man, sincerely.
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