An Interlude

The 8 barristers danced into the High Court of the Privy Council flinging their robes about, singing and dancing in gay abandon to the tune of "ging gang gooly gooly . . ." The Judge too — assuming the charisma of a bottomless go-go dancer in a gay bar in New Orleans — passed his wig under his armpit three or four times before switching on the lights. Aluminium powder flowed freely from valleys in the silk gowns and glinted in the ultra-violet light as it tumbled to the floor.

The expert witness, an accountant from Karori, busily stuffed raw mince and wet lettuce leaves down his trousers. And still the ageless oak panelling and scratched and ink stained desks, steeped in that musty dignity of the Legal Profession looked longingly for some small insect to crush.

Dormot, L. J., coughed and the registrar, an old man, shoulders stooped but still maintaining some youthful strength supported his sincere, weathered face in his hands and replied with an alarm clock. So the dialogue continued to the small hours of the morning.