Perhaps you remember my posting about my little sister’s small claims case against Sky. I wasn’t surprised to receive an email from her on Friday informing me that, after months of time-wasting and attempts at legal intimidation by them—don’t get lawyerly with woman who teaches law—she has finally and comprehensively whupped their sorry asses.
My favourite of her telephone updates was the one in which she complained that she was beginning to feel insulted by the dismal quality of solicitors they had sent to take her on: “They can’t even spell [the legal jargon they’re trying to scare me with]!” (I get that sometimes in my comments. Advice to anyone wanting to pick a fight here: don’t swallow a dictionary unless you can digest it.)
They should have rolled over at the start, when it would only have cost them a measly couple of grand; but that’s big organizations for you: institutionally demented. Nice one, Clare. Mine’s a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
My brother-in-law was also in touch with me yesterday, displaying his own language skills as he assessed the performance of the referee who officiated as his team played Nottingham Forest.