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year at school. The gorgeous, almost edible older brother of one of my classmates had come in to give us a talk on life as a solicitor in Newcastle. From that moment on, most of the girls set their hearts on legal careers, for all the wrong reasons of course. (The boys seemed to go for the nursing option. It could have had something to do with the young nurse’s rather minimalist uniform.)
    The fantasy had stayed with me all through GCSEs and A-levels then on to university. I had visions of living my life in the fast lane of a John Grisham movie set. The reality, of course, was a far cry from that Hollywood ideal. I was still waiting for ‘Tom’ to walk into my office and ask me to get on his case. We didn’t sit around in trendy bars ‘bouncing’ ideas off each other or indulge in convoluted brainstorming sessions as we sweated sexily in the gym. You could say that was obvious but I couldn’t help it if my mind chose to live in a dream world while my body trudged around in grim reality.
    Over the twenty-three months that I had spent with the firm, I had learned to think like my colleagues: to live my life in the future, looking forward to the day I made Partner and got the rich pickings. That would not be for at least seven years, if at all, but everyone in our hierarchical, grey little world seemed to find that sufficient motivation.
    At this point, though, I was nothing more than a female trainee. In a profession existing in its own bizarrely archaic world, I was the lowest of the low, valued less than the cappuccino machine. No job was too tedious, no hour too sacred. I could proofread with one eye, photocopy like a demon and make a cup of tea that Earl Grey would be proud of. I was kept going by the fact that my training was almost complete. In just four weeks, I would qualify as a fully fledged solicitor and, if Glisset & Jacksop agreed to keep me on, I would step up a rung on that career ladder.
    I read the same paragraph about four times as I tried to assimilate the facts and make any relevant changes.
    5.5: All products referred to in Annex 3 hereof shall remain the property of the aforementioned television company, hereinafter referred to as ‘The Vendor’ … blah, blah … forthwith shall be delivered … rhubarb, rhubarb … shall be returned in their original condition … waffle, blah, blah … as referred to in clause 3.6 hereof … the purchaser … yawn, waffle … as referred to … Jack, waffle, sigh.
    Damn. I had the concentration span of a retarded goldfish. I couldn’t get Jack out of my mind, and having to read incredibly dull documents wasn’t helping at all. The words were beginning to float on the page and they didn’t seem to make any sense whatsoever. Of course, I couldn’t possibly blame my poor brain capacity on the outstanding amounts of junk food and alcohol I had consumed over the past two days. I decided I must be coming down with something.
    Thinking back to the disastrous start to my year, I realisedhow glad I had been of Maz’s company. If it hadn’t been for her surgically removing me from underneath my duvet and kicking me into the shower, I definitely would not have made it to work this morning. I would probably still be snuggled up in twenty-four togs with my mind wandering along a distant, romantic beach. I didn’t know whether to love her or hate her.
    Food. I needed calories to get me through this. Maz had brought over a batch of homemade muffins from one of the regulars at the pub, which I had skilfully removed from the flat as I left for work. I grabbed one and began extracting the blueberries before shoving the entire sumptuous mass in my mouth. Only 8:45 a.m. and I had already reached number four on the cake count. Seeing as they were a present, I felt obliged to eat my way to muffin-induced obesity. I like to support the view that food cures most ills, including stress. I wasn’t exactly feeling stressed, though, more like totally spaced out, away with the