The Transgressions of a Capitalist's Daughter

Good girl, gone bad.

I was sitting by a stream in dappled, spring sunlight, weaving together whips of Common Dogwood into a circle. The thought came to me that this is a strange rebellion.

It is a normal, working day. A Friday. About lunchtime. And here I sit, by a stream, weaving together twigs just to pass the time. Just at that moment, I was not learning anything, nor producing anything, nor achieving anything. I just… was.

A few days ago I spoke to my dear friend Rachel.

Years and years ago - back when she was straight and I was planning a wedding - Rachel and I both worked for the same solicitor’s firm for about a week. I was just arriving and Rachel was just leaving, moving on to work as a Judicial Assistant at the Court of Appeal.

About a year later, we met again in the waiting room of a barrister’s chambers where we were both being interviewed for pupillage. We briefly greeted one another, while fighting overwhelming nerves.

Another year later and we were standing a few feet away from each other in a makeshift family court room in East London, arguing opposite sides of a case.

It was on the train on the way back to our respective chambers after that case that we had our first real conversation.

Many years later, Rach is one of my most cherished friends. I miss having the Bar in common with her, and I regret that our paths cross less frequently as a result. But when she rang out of the blue a few days ago, I was so glad to catch up and laugh and hold space for each other, just as we always have.

Rachel is a phenomenal, talented, compassionate, brilliant barrister. But she is an even better person. Talking to Rach about work stuff was a timely reminder of the world I left behind. I surprised Rach by saying that I miss being a barrister all the time. Of course I do, I said. There is nothing like the feeling of a good day in court.

My father was a wildly successful entrepreneur who started a company aged 26, sold it aged 40, made millions, and continued on in a role that had him leading teams of people all over the world. He died at the height of his success, leaving a fortune to sustain his now-orphaned children. From him, I inherited (or absorbed) a monomaniacal ambition.

Moving in with our aunt and uncle after his death, my new father-figure shared the same ceaseless work ethic that defined my father. My uncle - in retirement - continues to work harder than almost anyone else I know. But in my mid-teens when we began our new, rag-tag family unit, he was at the height of his success, breaking away from his computer only for meals and an occasional, cathartic trip to his allotment. From him, I learned the virtue of work, and the importance of using our skills to help others.

And here I was, just sitting by a stream in the middle of the day. About as far from a Family Court case as it is possible to be. My legal knowledge atrophying, my CV stagnating, and all the measures by which I previously measured my self-worth (and by which society measured my worth, too) turned to dust.

It probably sounds strange to say that sitting by a stream on a fine Friday afternoon felt like a transgression, but it did. Perhaps hearing about the homes in which I was raised - homes bought and sustained with hard graft - it makes some sense.

When I was signed off work, I was amazed at the response I had from friends and family. The idea that I wasn’t doing anything made people not only concerned for me, but also pitying and embarrassed. Here I was, a woman in her mid-30s with no husband, no children, and no career! I had nothing. I was nothing.

Before that, I was a Barrister. Everyone’s reaction to that is the same, whether making small talk at a London drinks party or - honestly - anywhere else in the world. People are impressed. People understand what that is, and what it takes. When it all went away, I felt so small. And the pity people felt made me smaller still.

But peoples’ response also made me furious.

When I was at my lowest, no one was concerned. Because that was also when I was, by any measure, absolutely killing it.

None of these well-meaning worriers were checking in when, for weeks at a time, I was working so much that I slept only a couple of hours a night, my adrenal system and cortisol levels perpetually on ‘PANIC! CODE RED! UNDER ATTACK!’.

No one checked in when, for over a year, I worked on a case during which both the client and her legal team were under genuine threat.

No one worried when my depression was so bad that walking to the end of the street felt like an impossible task, but which somehow, simultaneously allowed me to get up and travel across the country for work every day, because I couldn’t let my clients down.

Good girls work hard. They raise children. They do what they’re told. They don’t let people down. I was a good girl all my life. Until now.

What a pathetic rebellion it is to sit beside a stream. But now - with no earned income and no prospect of any in the near future - I am spending down my inheritance. I have been warned against this all my life. ‘Don’t blow it all,’ they said.

I never wanted to spend a cent of it. Even having access to my father’s wealth made me feel crippling guilt. He never wanted us to be spoiled. He always said he would kick us out at age 18 without a penny of support.

Until I was 30, I needed the permission of a very expensive trust lawyer and four trustees to have anything more than a monthly ‘allowance’. Once, while at University, I asked if I could have £1,200 for a new laptop and received an email saying ‘no’. At the same time, I was told that I was entitled to this money. It was mine, and I needed to learn how to manage and invest it for when the time came.

Well, now I’m blowing it. I’m buying plants, and renting a cottage, and sitting by a stream in the middle of the working day, weaving together whips of Common Dogwood and watching my two pups paddle in the stream.

I’ve never taken illegal drugs, and never will. I’ve never enjoyed clubbing, nor drinking, nor raves. I’ve never been arrested - quite the opposite. I was a good girl. Head girl. Runner up for Young Junior Family Law Barrister of the Year (deservedly beaten out for the title by Rach). I worked hard, and earned well, and drove myself into the ground doing it. And now, I’ve said ‘fuck it’.

If this is going off the rails, I like it.