After a tempestuous night we roll off our straw mattresses, cursing as we hit our heads on the low beams of our humble hovels. We make our way downstairs to the back door where we almost stumble over the Gloucester Old Spot as we head for the well and the first bucket of water of the day. We pick a dead starling out of the bucket. The rest of the water looks clear, so we slosh some of it over our hirsute torsos before using the remainder to fill the kettle on the range.
The range has gone cold overnight and we replenish it with faggots from the woodshed. We collected the faggots from the common last weekend, exercising our ancient right of estovers.
Ezekiel the outdoor servant brings in the freshly milked milk, bubbling in a pail. He removes several manure covered eggs from his pockets, still warm from the hens.
We put the eggs in the kettle and wait the customary 45 minutes for it to boil.
After filling our bellies with the good wholesome produce of the country we put on our cloth cap and smock and step into our 1952 Ford Popular. With some help from Ezekiel it erupts into life, pouring out a cloud of entirely uncontaminated blue smoke which hangs in the hedgerows and brings out small wrens coughing.
We set out for Town. We drive with our arm on the window and our bodies tilted to the right. Our cruising speed is 35 miles an hour. We cause queues of BMWs and Rovers to form behind us, but we enjoy the thrill of the wind rustling through our hair, and the dry taste of the straw in our mouth.
On the way to Town we wave to several of our clients who acknowledge our greeting from the backs of their tractors, combine harvesters and sheep.
As we reach the outskirts of Town we slow down to take our position behind the good people of Norfolk walking in from the outlying villages with their beasts, their geese and their crude handiwork. It is market day and it is always busy for yokels.
We reach the office as the clock on the town hall strikes ten. We park the Ford Popular by the front door.
We scrape the mud off our boots and enter our spacious building. Already it is busy. Holmes, the managing clerk has been at his desk since seven. The post room is reverberating with the ripping open of rough wrappings. The bell of the telephone is clanging repeatedly.
From an upstairs room there is the persistent rumble of four powerful secretaries applying their full strength to four massive typewriters. What they type stays typed; no problem of fading print here.
We nod to employees as we make our way to our room. The stoker has already prepared a roaring fire in the grate. We take a look at our impressive collection of up to date books: Do It Yourself Copyhold, Advowsons for Amateurs, Tithes Without Tears and a well thumbed copy of Mortmain for Managing Clerks.
Our substantial secretary walks heavily into the room. The list of the day's appointments is placed on the desk. We have a poacher to defend in the local magistrates court. We defend poachers because we take on all cases, but our body language indicates to the bench that a birching would be preferable to a conditional discharge.
Our secretary stands with giant pen poised waiting for the morning's long hand. We dictate slowly, partly because we think slowly, but partly because the hand holding the giant pen takes many seconds to form each rounded letter. When the dictation is over we send Peter back to the typing pool to rejoin his pals.
A pleasurable lunch of roast beef washed down with Abbot ale takes us to the afternoon, when we amble to the King's Head for the auction. By mistake we emit a satisfying belch at the wrong moment and acquire a smallholding complete with a herd of sheep. To make this acquisition fully worthwhile we buy a tupping harness.
We whistle happily as we urge the Ford Popular up to 29 mph on the journey home. We put down the tupping harness inside the front door as our seven children (all under 6 years old) rush to greet us from beneath the billowing folds of our good wife's skirt.
We listen to the children's tales of bullying and beating at the village school. They did well today: three of their classmates with black eyes, two with broken collar bones, and the teacher in hospital.
Once the children are asleep we repair to a back room in the house. There in the gloom we press some buttons. The darkened room is filled with soft green light. We type yokel@/www/pentagon. We do enjoy finding out from the Internet what is happening in the world.

This article first appeared in Solicitors Journal in October 1995.