When I first entered the legal profession I worked in a fine building in Edinburgh's Georgian New Town. Though the reception area was quite smart and clients were always seen in grand rooms, behind the genteel facade office accommodation for the minions was less glamorous. Not far beyond the front door the thick carpet gave way to linoleum, high-ceilinged rooms were heated by ancient, puny gas fires, and the tiny kitchen was scruffy in the extreme. However, not so many years before I worked there, conditions were positively Dickensian, and older members of staff regaled us with tales of coal fires (no doubt there was a 'boy' or 'odd man' to keep them stoked), high sloping desks and ledgers in which entries were made with quill pens.
Although we used computers, much of our work involved reading title deeds, many of which were written in elegant script on vellum, impressed with a silver 'stamp'. Legal language was satisfyingly archaic and - naturally - incomprehensible to those outwith the profession. We talked of Instruments of Sasine, incorporeal moveables, infeftment and other esoterica while about us the paint peeled, the stone stairs showed their years of wear and leather-bound law reports gathered dust in the library.
The apprentices and clerks of old might have appreciated a pair of these mittens (Bob Cratchit-style, updated). Harriet saw the pattern for these wrist and handwarmers in Joelle Hoverson's "Last minute knitted gifts" and asked for them in alpaca silk. They took around a ball and a half and hardly any time, and the spiral rib has worked well. The colour is lime green, though different light and camera settings have reproduced it variously:
My old firm has moved now to modern, purpose-built offices; centrally heated, technologically up to the minute, and probably somewhat soulless. No mittens needed there, unless as fashion accessories.
