Days beyond recall?

James Morton narrates the story of how his lack of numeracy led to his wearing a furry bowler hat and opening post at a fleet street law firm

The news that science graduates are making synthetic drugs to pay off their student loans reminds me how things have changed since my own dear articles.

I can't say that I ever wanted to be a solicitor.

It was simply that my father, who was a somewhat unworldly businessman, bitterly regretted that while his brothers had become a doctor and an accountant, he had gone into trade.

It was something which was not going to happen to the son and heir.

Since I had no mathematical ability whatsoever, the law was the only remaining option.

A 7% result in O-levels was followed by intense coaching and I doubled up the next year.

My father realised that even if I continued at the amazing rate of 100% improvement - something which certainly could not be guaranteed - it would be many years before I achieved anything approaching the pass rate.

At the time, I believe there were only two professions which did not require a maths pass at O-level for basic entry.

The first was the church, possibly on the grounds that totalling up the Easter offering would not overtax even the most unmathematical.

The second, and I have always thought this quite amazing, was the law.

In the early 1960s, I was packed off to a solicitors' firm in London's Fleet Street which handled a good deal of running-down work.

Over the years, I think I saw my principal a maximum of five times.

Passing on the stairs did not count.

The first was on the day my articles were signed, and he took me to his club for luncheon.

The second was when he asked me to collect some opera tickets for him, the third when he wanted some flowers delivered to a client, the fourth was when he kindly gave me his ticket for the second day of the Lords Test.

The firm had pretensions.

There were two members of the Corps of Commissionaires who tended the door.

The other articled clerk - a far more worldly man who played the trumpet in a jazz band and who went on to considerable success in the profession - and I wore furry bowler hats and carried rolled umbrellas.

Unasked, but thinking we were being helpful, we opened the post in the firm's library, carefully sorting it into the wooden trays provided.

On the second day, we were summoned to his principal's office and told that while our gesture was appreciated it was the job of the commissionaires and not for us to be troubled with.

We took to arriving later.

For a time I was attached to the outdoor clerk, issuing writs, filing affidavits.

He was a man who despised the other outdoor clerks who could be seen drinking in the vaults at the law courts.

Instead, after the morning summonses, he and I sat in the cafeteria while, with pepper and salt pots, cups and saucers, he re-fought the battle of Salerno where he had been wounded.

On the day he poured lines of salt to mark the Italian trenches we were asked to leave.

Then, for a short period, I was placed with a little man whose face resembled a walnut.

When he pushed at his forehead his bald head rippled like waves lapping on a beach.

Highly independent, when a partner offended him, something which occurred probably on a weekly basis, he would say 'Eff 'em; I'll fine 'em'.

He would then take off, in the case of a minor infraction to the Lyons Corner House where he would stay for an hour or so, or, in the case of major misbehaviour by his employers, home for the day.

At least this taught me a valuable lesson on how to prevaricate.

'He's on an all-day conference with counsel,' I would lie.

Law school for the intermediate exam was another matter.

No Socratean methods of tuition there.

Simply solid lecturing by humourless men (and one woman).

'A cheque of the Dunlop variety' and 'Every company has a main object except that of Miss Diana Dors which has two main objects' was the height or depth of wit.

See, I do remember something.

Law school was off the Bayswater Road and we would raise our hats to the prostitutes who even before 10am lined the street in the hope of some trade from the local Norwegian seamen's hostel.

Every Wednesday, the lectures would be brightened by a street band which passed by.

There was a clubroom that we were automatically entitled to visit but I cannot recall anyone who did.

The rules - designed no doubt to allow the sale of alcohol - said that its existence was to 'promote social intercourse between students'.

Things are much more exciting nowadays.

And the fifth meeting with my principal? The day I told him I was transferring my articles.

I'm not sure he noticed I was even in the room.

He certainly didn't look up.

James Morton is a former criminal law specialist solicitor and now a freelance journalist