Blood from a stone

The scenario:
You need to see a lawyer.
You have some contracts you want checked.
You're a cheapskate.

For the last hundred-thousand years you've seen the same sign on your way to the production house each day. Legal advice. $20 for 20 minutes. You think, 'It shouldn't take 20 minutes to check a 3-page contract.' So you go in to inquire.

The elderly lady at the reception desk ignores you for the first five minutes. That's despite having looked right at you as you entered the otherwise vacant room, two massive coughing attacks on your part in a vain attempt to attract her attention and several excuse me's. You only spring into her consciousness when somebody else - an entire extended family actually - enters the room.

"Hi, I'd like to have a contract checked for a [insert explanation], can I do that here and what's the procedure?" you ask.

"You make an appointment," she says primly, then proceeds to tell you that the next available slot is in two days time. You hurriedly agree because her eyes are once again showing a vacant sheen and you're not sure you want to wait until someone else enters - can fit into - the now crowded room. You leave, thinking that for a $20 lawyer you'd have waited at least another 5 minutes.

Two days later you arrive on time to discover another old dear at the desk. She recognises you straight away. She asks you to fill out some forms, pay over your $20 and explain once again what you need done. She then asks you to wait on the couch until the lawyer arrives.

The lawyer arrives and she leads you into her room. There's a 4th year law student there as well to observe. You explain again what you need done and hand over the contracts. The lawyer frowns. "I'm not sure I can do this," she says. She hmms and hahs a few times, goes out to see if someone else is qualified to check it instead, returns to tell you that nobody is, sits down and grabs the yellow pages. She provides you with a pamphlett featuring a list of names - of recommended 'proper' lawyers - as well as a seemingly random name picked from the phone book.

"Where do you live," she asks.

"South Perth"

"Is that near the city?"

It's about now you start to realise that the $20 is for the copy of the DVD you'll receive featuring the highlights of some legal version of Candid Camera - of which you will be one of the stars.

The law student pipes up, "It's just across the river."

"I'm from Queensland," the Lawyer says.

And that pretty much sums up the entire scenario. The lawyer. The little old lady. The $20. Queenslanders have come west and set up shop hoping to cash in on our booming economy. You wonder why she didn't tell you that when you entered. It would have been so much quicker and far less confusing. Perhaps a sign on the doorway: WARNING: This area may contain banana-benders. Enter at your own risk. They could also be forced to wear a tag or declare it during introductions.

"Hi, my name is Joe and I will be your lawyer for this evening. Under the Mental Health Act of 1972 I am required to tell you that I was born a Queenslander but I have been in remission for three years now."

All this has taken about five minutes and you're finished.

"Do I at least get a discount?" you ask.

And that's when it happens. That small thing that a religious person might have called a miracle.

"I don't think you should have to pay at all."

Blood from a stone.