I advised Mishcon de Reya: fleece them for all they've got

The Agreeable World of Wallace Arnold

GRIEF is probably putting it strongly. Nevertheless, when Diana, Princess of Wales died last year (it was widely reported on television and in the newspapers at the time) I will admit that, for a few brief but telling minutes, I experienced a twinge of sadness - far more so, in fact, than if she had continued to live. No doubt there will be those who, reading this admission, will accuse me of being a great big softy. But others, I trust, will realise that even senior men of affairs such as myself can, from time to time, afford to indulge in a bit of unashamed emotion. Once in a while, a public show of "the inner person" (dread phrase!) can prove what I believe the Hollywood moguls call "a box-office draw".

But I have long maintained that grief is but a butterfly in the wind if it is not directed to a purpose. She was The People's Princess, and we must strive to ensure that she will be remembered as such, making quite sure that it is The People, and The People alone, who are permitted to "cough up" to the various funds and commemorative tributes that have now been set up for that very purpose.

Only the other week I revealed how, acting on my express advice, the dashing Earl Spencer has decided to allow the public to grieve amidst the verdant surroundings of Althorp for the cursory sum of pounds 9.50 a throw. The Earl has also been good enough to service their more humdrum needs, and his catering will be second to none, including very reasonably priced Griefburgers and a three-course menu, "Diana, Princess of Meals", available from the sit-down restaurant for those who have more time on their hands.

So far, so good - but over the past ten days I have been greatly distressed by the unnecessary abuse heaped on my young friend and confrere Anthony Julius at Mishcon de Reya, much of it motivated, I suspect, by nothing more than rank envy. There are few people as qualified as Mishcon de Reya in passing on other people's money to those who need it most, or, in their case, second most. Among their senior employees are those highly skilled in the ancient legal arts of addressing (including correct postcode) and postage, not to mention their in-house world experts in due billing. Surely pounds 500,000 is not too much to ask when such skills as these are on call.

Anthony is an exceptionally intelligent young man. I have even heard it said he can name all the United States of America in alphabetical order whilst at the same time rubbing his stomach with his left hand in an anti- clockwise direction. After coming away from Oxford with a First Class Honours Degree in sums, he was taken on by Mishcon de Reya, having demonstrated to their complete satisfaction his aptitude for the job by sending them a bill for pounds 156.72p plus VAT for the time and effort he had expended on their initial interview.

Before long, Anthony was using his outstanding judgement, intellectual know-how and integrity to defend my old friend and quaffing partner Robert Maxwell in his uphill battle against those who sought to traduce his good name. Barely a day would pass without Anthony sending forth a threatening missive to one or other journalist of TV Watchdog (dread profession) who would seek to undermine Mr Maxwell's honour. And he stuck by Bob to the very end, sending out a low-flying helicopter with all the most up-to- the-minute surveillance equipment after news of his disappearance first came through in order to join in the air-sea rescue operation, first equipping the pilot with a waterproof envelope containing a copiously annotated bill for his firm's services to date.

Small wonder then that a man of such obvious talents, who is also a dab hand at the yo-yo, and often delights high-powered dinner parties by wiggling his ears and at the same time reciting On the Good Ship Lollipop in Ancient Greek, should now find himself so ruthlessly targeted by the chip-on-the-shoulder brigade. As senior media adviser to Mishcon de Reya, I was prudent enough to advise them, in the interests of good press relations, to issue a statement declaring they were demanding half a million pounds from the Princess of Wales Memorial Fund before rather than after any of the so-called "charities" had received anything. And I think my tactic paid off: imagine the brouhaha among the do-ers in our society had they wasted all that money on the sick, the poor and the downright bloody lazy before helping themselves to their due share.

But lawyers have grown quite used to the uncaring response of a deeply hostile world. They hail from a town called Misunderstood. Over many years of vilification, they have learnt to look success and failure squarely in the face, and to charge them just the same.