In Praise of Our Parents
That we inevitably become a form of our parents is something that we all have an opinion on. I lurch from denial to pained acceptance. In the middle of this journey is the warm hope of thinking that if it is inevitable then maybe I could choose which specific parts of my parents I could inherit. I’d take my Dad’s propensity to fill his life with the things he loves, my Mum’s intellect, both of their capacities to maintain their friendship, a love of history, bouts of humour, a commitment to their children and a hope, that is always close to the surface, that this world we live in can improve and nurture us all. I’d keep their wish to fight for all, for equality. A tolerance for all except intolerance. I’d also keep their beautiful Tudor homes, if Pete will let me.
I have the odd additional complication of having a Dad who is a barrister. I have watched him endure, with good grace, the cycle of young people, and sometimes older wiser people, telling him how much they’d like to become him. As though my Dad, in one of his middle Temple pedestal desk drawers, has spare permission slips that will omit one (determined & intelligent) person to the hallowed belly of ‘the bar’. That people want to become my Dad is quite lovely. He’ll deny it but I have watched the enjoyment that Being A Barrister gives him, especially in public. Whilst he outright rejected the funny wigs and silly court attire he has fully embraced the cashmere overcoat, the fine pinstripe suits and confident stride - the full accoutrements of being a barrister. If being a barrister was a meal it would surely be a state banquet. It would start with champagne and a beautiful woman to flirt with, by the second course you’d have arrived, via several funny anecdotes, to modern history. Dessert would be called pudding and involve a story - half remembered and much embellished - about being young and brilliant and very amusing. Barristers are, I have experienced, wonderful company. They are very funny. They are not solicitors. Much like doctors, we all want our very own resident barrister. As a child I felt very fortunate having both Atticus Finch & Kavangh QC as a father.
Sadly my Mum is an accountant. Or rather a small business owner who, after Cambridge, gained her accountancy qualification and - amongst other things - has worked for Oxford University Press and always championed the young people she has worked with. However, few people want to become accountants. That I am one of those people who are utterly beguiled by what she can do on Excel is sadly not enough to convince any other young person that the future is columns and cells - and isn’t that exciting. In life you want to please others and that means judges with their gavels (yes Dad, I’ve put this in here to annoy you), never asking a question you don’t know the answer to, Habeas Corpus, ‘how do you represent people you know to be guilty’, my Dad being the champion for some scallywag, heroic battles for justice, brilliant put downs and red ribbon.
I will not become a barrister. For the simple reason that I am not qualified to be one, in both senses. That some of that humour, brilliance, logical mind and confidence might someday appear in me sounds wonderful. Sadly, I suspect what I’ve in fact inherited is the belligerence.
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