My name is Felix O'bese. I am a fat cat lawyer and proud of it. Every morning I wake up next to Gladys (well it is usually Gladys) who is snoring soundly, her rollers rising and falling as she fills or drains her ample lungs.
With a sharp kick I persuade her out of bed and downstairs to start on my breakfast. I always like a high cholesterol breakfast. Fried eggs (three), sausages, (four), mushrooms (seventeen) and fried bread swimming in grease are my minimum requirements.
While Gladys is having her first weed of the day (sometimes I find little morsels of ash floating on my egg yolks) I take my bath. My plastic ducks can no longer get all the way round the tub, because there is this big island in the middle. It used to be an atoll, but now it has become a sub-continent.
The corridor groans to the thump of heavy footsteps as I make my way back to the bedroom. My sartorial requirements have always increased in line with my age. My girth and my years both exceed 50. My suit now resembles a bin liner as I pull it loosely over my torso. Applying socks is a problem. If I sit on the bed my feet disappear over the horizon. If I hop on one leg, the structural integrity of the house is threatened.
Down in the kitchen Gladys, looking lovely as ever in her stained pink dressing gown, coughs tenderly as she places the steaming plate in front of me. The tabloid, neatly folded so as to miss any hint of a Page 3 girl, and to focus my attention on the racing, sits to the right of the greasy eggs.
I make light work of this feast, and wash it down with half a dozen slices of toast.
A glance at the grubby face of the clock tells me that it is time for off. Another day of money making beckons. Gladys takes her cigarette out of her mouth long enough to receive the statutory peck. Affectionately she tugs my crumpled jacket down to cover the shinier parts of my trousers.
The handle of my corpulent briefcase gave up the unequal struggle years ago, as did much of the stitching of the seams. I stuff a sheaf of papers into it and sling it under may arm as I head for the door.
As befits all fat cat lawyers, I have a large car. The power of many horses lurks under the bonnet. It is a pity that they are now so old that they are ready for the knacker's yard.
I turn the key. The engine makes a noise like Gladys's first cough of the day. Many minutes later it lurches into life, black smoke pouring from the exhaust. I ease onto the road and as I gain speed, the car adds to its repertoire of sounds. The trailing exhaust pipe, the wind whistling through the ill-fitting doors and the sound of a hundred footsteps on gravel have now been joined by the kind of clatter made by a lawn mower which has just bisected a large flint.
We (my powerful steed and I) make it to the office. I glance back at the car as I head for reception. A wisp of smoke rises from the engine, and the tires are as smooth as my trousers. I am greeted by Tracy, our receptionist in an agitated state. I can hardly get my coat off before she starts to blurt out (in fact I can hardly get my coat off at all) that the bank manager has been on the phone again asking when the next payment is coming in. And the milkman has threatened not to leave until he is paid.
I calm her down. I remind her how rich I am on the proceeds of legal aid. I give her a reassuring hug, leaving her gasping for breath.
I make my way to my office. At least I call it my office. It is only slightly smaller than the Lord Chancellor's famous smallest room, but we fat cat lawyers need spare no expense. It is true, the arms of my chair are worn through, but that is nothing a little upholstering will not solve. And one of the client chairs has a habit of tilting sideways. Again, no problem. If the clients like each other, I make them tilt together. If they are at daggers drawn, I make them fall apart.
A hard morning filling in green forms gives me a big appetite. Time for a fat feast. It is well known that the fat cats are keeping the expensive restaurants in business. Me, I'm no exception. My favourite lunch spot is busy today. High powered customers have to wait as the maitre de cuisine prepares their orders. My turn comes:
"Large cod, and a double helping of chips please luv" I say as I hand over two whole pound coins.
Luncheon today is wrapped in a back number of the Sun. If I am lucky I will not only have a very satisfying repast but I will be able to spread my batter all over Page 3 without any frowns from Gladys.
I have scarcely finished the last chip before Tracy is back. She looks much happier.
"It's wonderful news Mr O'Bese. The legal aid statement has come in. We've been credited with £432 this month. The bank manager will be pleased."
Many chargeable hours later I am on my way home. My car suddenly makes a loud clattering noise. I just make it to the forecourt of my local garage. Paul the mechanic wanders out, just as an unpleasant green liquid oozes from under the back wheels.
Paul shakes his head sadly. "Looks like you need a new diff. Hang on a sec and I'll give you a price"
He comes back with a clipboard. "To you Mr O'Bese, that'll be £432 including parts and labour, but if I were you I would get another car. Rich lawyer like you should be driving something twenty five years younger than that heap."
"Go tell that to the Lord Chancellor" I reply, but I think the meaning is lost on him, as indeed it is on the Lord Chancellor.

This article first appeared in Solicitors Journal in May 1998