Earlier this week, in a grovelling exercise that is the norm for journalists wanting copies of court exhibits in most parts of this country, I found myself in line at the clerk’s counter at the main courthouse in downtown Toronto.
I was already beside myself with indignation, having spent the morning trying to hear the lawyers and witness in a significant sex-assault trial I am covering — microphones that amplify are a rarity in Ontario courts — and being stymied in my efforts to even physically get the permission form for exhibits to the judge.
In the end, I stood up and addressed Her Honour in court, and she settled the whole business with her usual efficiency, fixing what she could.
Still, I was luckier than members of the public, who endure the same time-wasting lunacy and often also must engage in the courting of lesser clerks in order to ascertain the correct counter, room and staff in front of whom to perform the full grovel.
And I was certainly luckier than the lawyer in line before me.