|Lord Walker (extreme right) from afar|
My gloves have metal studs and they set off the security alarm at the Supreme Court.
Lesage v the Mauritius Commercial Bank Limited concerns fraud. Mauritian law appears to be an awkward fit of the Code Napoleon and English law; the case has squeezed through the gap to get to London.
A regular supply of tourists come and go. They last a few minutes in the public seats, then negotiate silently with each other about when and how to leave.
When the lunch break comes I learn that squatter-activists, including people from Occupy, are heading to the Royal Courts of Justice for an eviction hearing. I arrange to go there with a client who's writing a newspaper article about squatting.
As I leave the Supreme Court, I'm stopped by a security guard.
'You're the one who does the drawings, aren't you!'
He beams at me. Poised. Interesting highlights on the skin.
I promise to draw him next time.
Laymen are too easily intimidated by a courtroom setting. Why say 'Not at this precise moment in time, my lord' instead of 'No'? Even so, the hearing is brief.
The activists cluster outside for a smoke, oblivious to the designated smoking area a few yards away.
'Look, man!' Someone points down at the formal black shoes he has worn for the courtroom. 'My feet just ain't that shape!'
I'm too tired for drawing, the atmosphere too jumpy.
Johnny Teatent comes downstairs barefoot to greet the courtroom squad. His pale cheek has a zig-zag red wound about two days old. He's been glassed.