tuesday nights

I have just finished a pro-bono secondment. I think this why my Uncle (the BCF partner) brought me into the firm. Re-vamp the pro-bono program he said - we want people to know we care (so they don't think that all the money goes straight to his wife's BMW).

I was over the moon, great human rights work AND a corporate salary, almost an unheard of combination in Melbourne. I'm sure the fact that my uncle is a partner went quite some way to helping me get the job but I do actually have some experience in the area and, mostly, I think I did a pretty good job.

I say mostly because there were two things that may have reduced the overall impact I had as advocate for Melbourne's under privileged.

One, I shagged Paul, the graduate, in a moment of drunken man-hating in the first week (I know it doesn't make total sense to shag a man if you hate all men but this was a moment of cruelness only years of unsuccessful interactions with men could have brought on). I had not, however, considered the fact that we would have to work together every day for the next six months and that I would be his boss.

Two, Ben (we'll just call him 'Ben' to preserve his anonymity). Ben was the bane of my existence. He had been the lawyer there before me. He works for another BCF that also claims to do good for the community by seconding lawyers to pro bono organisations. He was perfect. So perfect, apparently, that it's hard for anyone to match up. If you throw Ben into a dominantly female community legal centre, any woman that follows has no chance.

He is shmick. He has brilliant suits and fantastically tanned skin that suggests outdoorsiness without solarium. He has great eyes that sparkle a bit. And he is a good lawyer. I have appeared against him in court a couple of times and his charm is tangible. Female magistrates find him impossible to resist and he is renowned for getting great results for his clients.

I think Ben will haunt me wherever I go.

The secondment finished about a week ago and now I'm back at BCF full-time. There are a lot of things I like about corporate gorgeousness. My shoes match my handbag. My debt is paid off. There is a flash name-plate on my office door that says: "Trixie Allan - Senior Associate". I'm here, on the seventeenth floor at 9pm on a Tuesday night, eating my favourite Moroccan lamb with cous cous and re-drafting an affidavit. And I don't feel alone. There are at least seven other occupied offices. And that feels good.