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noticed, as he flicked through the pages of his judgement, that the
handwriting, especially when he wrote something quickly, had become
exactly the same as his father's, a set of round squiggles,
indecipherable to most outsiders. He gathered the papers together when
his tipstaff told him that it was time.
"I'm ready when you are," he said as though the tipstaff were the one
in charge. He put on his robe and his wig, pushing back some wisps of
hair before walking out into the broad light of the corridor.
He had learned over the years not to look at anyone as he walked from
his rooms to the court, not to offer greetings to a colleague, or nod
at a barrister. He kept his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. He
walked slowly, with determination. Downstairs, the Round Hall was full,
like an old-fashioned marketplace. The corridors were busy as he walked
towards the ante-chamber to his court.
This was the last day of term, he would have to deal with urgent
business before getting down to read the judgement he had been working
on for several months. He looked again through the pages, which had been
cleanly typed by a court secretary and then covered by emendations. All
the references to previous judgements were underlined with the dates they
had appeared in the Irish Reports in parenthesis. This judgement, too,
would appear in the Irish Reports and would be cited when the rights of
the citizen to state services was being discussed in the future, such as
the right to attend a hospital, the right to attend a school, or, in this
case, the right to full-time and comprehensive psychiatric care.
He waited in the ante room. It was still not time. He felt excited at the
prospect of getting away. Soon, he would be twenty-five years on the bench
and he remembered this last day's waiting more vividly than the hum-drum
days or the significant or difficult cases, this waiting on the last day of
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