The photo shown below got me thinking about toilets and my role as a judge. In addition to incessant fawning (that never gets old), one of the perks of becoming a federal judge is that you generally get your own toilet. Until I took senior status, I proudly claimed my own toilet as one of the finer trappings of the judicial role. But, now, that has all changed.
The practice in our little courthouse is that when a judge takes senior status, the old judge moves from his former chambers to make room for the new judge. When our wonderful new colleague John Gerrard joined us, I moved just like Warren Urbom moved when I became an active district judge.
With one exception, my new chambers are perfectly fine. Since I practiced law for 13 years in an office without windows, virtually anything is better than the dump I had while in the law biz.
There is a big problem however. My new digs don’t have a toilet. I have to walk three steps into the corridor to get to a bathroom and that bathroom is also used by court staff and jurors. Ick! Ick! Ick!
Communing with commoners while in the commode is probably good for the soul. It does not, however, burnish my self perception as a big cheese.* Just say’n.
*I am not the only big cheese with toilet and self perception issues. “I just realized my name is an anagram for ‘toilets'” — T.S. Eliot, on his deathbed.
Photo credit: Two Roses’ photostream. Used pursuant to a Creative Commons License, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en