Jennifer James believes a lot can be learned from our Euro neighbours
The Insider has been following with interest the news stories over the past week or so regarding the European Constitution and David Cameron’s decision not to insist upon a referendum in respect thereof. The right-wing press (oh, alright then, the Daily Mail) has been up in arms about it: would the last person to leave the country please switch off the lights? etc.
Europhobia
I have never understood Europhobia; having travelled extensively in Europe, I have met no greater concentration of halfwits than I would expect to encounter within five feet of my own front door. My fondness for the local hooch has given rise to a cocktail cabinet stuffed with liquor that I enjoyed on holiday but curiously enough have never wanted to touch once I got home. The prime example of this has to be Unicum, purchased in Budapest, where it is known as the universal accelerator.
It is dangerous stuff; it has to be drunk ice-cold, in which state a mist hangs over it like something dreamt up by Hammer House of Horror. It comes in a black, spherical bottle (exactly like a cartoon version of a bomb, minus the fuse) and has a cross on the label plus the ominous word “Zwack”. Whether Zwack is the town of origin, a description of the contents or the onomatopoeia for the sound made by one who consumes it to excess remains a mystery.
As well as alcohol I have purchased many souvenirs, some tasteful (my print of Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia in Barcelona) some less so (a corkscrew of the Mannekin Pis with the business end attached to his business end).
Sprouting from Brussels
The latter was purchased in Brussels, heart of the EU and described to me by the local police as a bit like Casablanca in the days of World War II, full of displaced persons hoping to get papers to travel somewhere else.
This was on the occasion of my British Passport being lifted from my hotel room, doubtless by a member of hotel staff, leading to an extremely bizarre conversation with the concierge who attempted to pooh-pooh the very notion, saying, “But Madame, ’oo would want to steal ze British Passport?” a question right up there with: “But Madame, ’oo would want ze £45m Lotto ticket?”
In Brussels you can buy posters and t-shirts with an amusing (but hugely tasteless) cartoon showing the different countries’ ways of doing what comes naturally; the British, you will be pleased to hear, keep their bowler hats and sock suspenders on at all times. It would be very tempting to write about how the different countries practise law, the Germans always looking to push the boundaries, the Italians taking a four-hour lunch break, that sort of thing.
However, I thought a visit from the Political Correctness Wombat (cousin of South Park’s Sexual Harassment Panda) would likely follow, especially if I said anything about the Greeks. It might be instructive to learn what our European counterparts think of us; mind you, being British, we probably couldn’t give a monkey’s.
The Italian Job
The Italian four-hour lunch break is not a myth and nor is it a sign of laziness.
The further south you go in Italy, the more you realise that in the summer months the middle of the day is too hot to do anything but sit under a beach umbrella murmuring through cracked and dehydrated lips “Grappa...” It does not mean that Italian lawyers are an idle lot; they just start work very early and finish very late.
Going Dutch
The Dutch have a more sensible approach to work-life balance; I was on an Anglo-Dutch exchange trip in 2000 and we took a boat trip to a firm with offices beside a canal where we were given lunch and a talk on cultural issues delivered by the senior partner in the gardens. It was a beautiful day and I was complimenting my Dutch counterpart on her good fortune in working in such surroundings, but said I expected she had to work exceptionally long hours.
She demurred and informed me that, if she was still at her desk after 6.30pm, the senior partner was apt to stick his head around the door and chide her “What are you doing still here? You can’t possibly still be working productively. Go home!” I was at the time working for a firm whose senior partner once “jokingly” asked HR to chain me to my desk.
The Dutch also know how to party; The Hague Young Bar always host a bash to celebrate the closing of the legal year, and the last time I attended I delivered a rap written for the occasion. At any other place on earth I’d have had shoes heaved at me; in The Hague they loved it, and no, they had not been at the herbal tobacco.
The great divide
The Belgians are hard to pigeonhole as they are split into two, the French and the Flemish Bars. I made friends with a couple from Ghent with whom I have stayed in touch ever since. They have always lived in Ghent, were married in the Cathedral and he has his practice in the town but from what I could gather he was not even sure who was the President of the French Young Bar that year; the two groups do not socialise. I would add this is one of the most pleasant individuals I have ever met; it’s just how things are done there.
