More or less the first training I had during my articles in the 1950s was the morning rounds of summonses held in the Bear Garden at the Royal Courts of Justice, writes James Morton.

Today, everything is probably done electronically, but back then there was a time summons at 10.30 most mornings. Managing clerks (as they were called) would hustle each other over getting an extra 14 days to deliver a defence, or further and better particulars.

These were presided over by a series of generally disagreeable Masters, the worst of whom was an ill-tempered, hulking man with a penchant for sweeping your papers on to the floor after he had given his decision; leaving you to scrabble to retrieve them at the feet of the men (certainly no women) in the next case.

But being hit by the next man’s flying file was not the only danger.

There were also the various, usually ill-dressed, men and women who skulked around with piles of papers soliciting help from the clerks – always refused. When the man in charge of me found me actually speaking with one, I was roundly abused.

These were ‘litigants in person’ who at best should be ignored, and at worst should be recommended to a firm of solicitors with whom one was in serious dispute.

I did learn something from those articles. Years later, I had an office off Chancery Lane, which meant that I was the nearest solicitor to the Law Society.

As a result, I was first in line for a series of litigants who claimed the Land Registry had implanted a walkie-talkie in their head. Many were initially plausible.

The giveaway was when they announced proudly that the Duke of Edinburgh was taking a personal interest in the case, and they were sure I would want to help His Highness.

My standard answer was that mine was too small a firm for such a weighty matter, but I regret to say that on one occasion, when I had been offended by a Council member, I sought revenge and recommended his practice as the very best possible for the man.

Ten minutes later, I had a fit of conscience and rang the firm, telling the receptionist that I had inadvertently mentioned their name and they might soon have a new client.

‘He’s here already,’ was the reply. ‘He’s taken his trousers off and is threatening to set fire to the office. We’ve called the police’. Sometimes revenge is sweet.

James Morton is a writer and former criminal defence solicitor