As regular readers may know, I live in a teeny, tiny apartment in Melbourne’s inner north with a lovely lawyer called Ned.
Despite the more obvious reasons for third parties to be concerned about this arrangement – the marmalade jars that more often find their way to the crockery cupboard than the recycling bin, the multiple leaning towers of books and records, or the monthly car break-ins – what troubles them most is that I would want to spend my out-of-work hours with another lawyer.
For me, it’s a no-brainer.
I’ve had enough failed relationships with non-lawyers to know when I’m onto something good …
The artist with the fluid understanding of time who shows up two hours late to my great-aunt’s funeral. The banker who thinks Channel 10 coined the phrase Big Brother. The landscape gardener who, in the queue to vote, asks whether it’s state or federal. The public servant who, despite multiple meetings and planning sessions about taking the bins out, drives me each week to chase the rubbish truck in moccasins and a negligee. The chef I only know had been home because the mirror and razor-blade had been moved.
Clichés become clichés for a reason.
About half my lawyer friends feel the same.
Or else they have ended up cohabiting with people they studied or worked with and haven’t thought twice about the topic.
Still, they must quite like each or why would they stay together?
It can’t be for the nightly home-cooked meals and judicious darning. Or for the money, at least in the early years.
It seems to work best when a couple work in disparate fields within the law.
The solicitor/barrister combo is a treat. At chez Mole, it’s P&E and the VLA CLD.
Fellow articled clerk Jai now does GST and his boyfriend is at a native title NGO. Ruby’s in PI and her boy in M&A.
(If you know all these acronyms, you already spend too much time with lawyers and probably don’t need to read this post.)
Tis bad news when you’re shagging someone in your own practice group and the only personal space you get is shared with a tampon bin.
The same goes if both of you are on around-the-clock call for clients who tend to get locked-up or want to finalise the purchase of small Japanese corporate conglomerations in the wee hours.
Of course, shacking-up with a lawyer can result in spending your eves arguing about the admissibility of evidence or constitutionality of decisions.
That’s in addition to the usual debates about toilet seats or whether the milk is off.
But they smell nice and won’t judge you for pouring a supersized wine at the end of the day.
Works for me.