And you could dress up.
|Clare considers the clues (look to your left!)|
|Your author cogitates - to no avail|
Earlier we had driven to the Bristol Probate Registry near Bristol Bridge. The Probate Registry was not where the satnav had said it was, and when we eventually found it (thanks, Google Maps!) there was no parking. I abandoned the car to Clare, who set off (in central Bristol) to find somewhere to park, while I entered the building, or tried to.
Thinks: 'Why won't this door open?'
A few minutes pass while I try to figure it out.
Passer-by: "That's the exit, try the door to your left."
Having negotiated the policeman searching belongings and the security scanner, I entered the vestibule and found a deserted Probate Office window. I used the phone provided to call down an official, a pleasant and brisk young man who quickly took me through the script. Five minutes later I had affirmed my Oath, signed where necessary and left the building.
Outside on the Plaza ("No skateboarding: the full force of the law will be brought to bear.") I waited for Clare in the chill northerly wind. I was soon joined by a muscular young man in tee-shirt and cords, leather boots and tattoos who was taking a fag break. He glanced-without-glancing at me, a casual superiority already classifying me as prey. Skin prickling, I moved out of his way and inspected the board by the door. Probate was the least of the Justice functions housed in the building - most prominent were the large number of Courts.
Clare arrived in the car after a further few minutes. How pleased I was that she had failed to find a parking space. We departed forthwith for Tyntesfield.