Lloyd Davies has written this kind of book. He tells his stories lucidly, with a finger-licking relish for the English language which one might suspect has something to do with a probably Welsh origin. (Isn’t every Welsh Tom, Dick and Harry called Lloyd Davies?)

The author practised law in Fremantle and practised drinking with his clients at the Cleopatra Hotel. Several of his stories flow from the pub; several have their origins inside the courtroom. He was a left­wing radical – a man deeply suspected of left-wing radicalism at a time when it was a cause for deep suspicion. Some of his stories cast an ironic light on his early days, coping with Australian conservatism. Here is an example of Davies’s style:

By coincidence, one of the locals happened to be a client of mine. According to him it was well known to them that the proceeds (of a recent robbery) were hidden in the bush in a hollow black stump. This was kept secret until one of them boastfully let it slip in the local pub in the hearing of a police informer.

This loquacious peasant was soon heavied into passing on his information to the Criminal Investigation Branch who set up a camouflaged ‘hide’ in the vicinity of the black stump which would have done credit to Harry Butler.

Diligent officers of the Criminal Investigation Branch manned the hide through weeks of bitter, wet weather until early one spring morning Honest John made his appearance dressed in his best suit and carrying a large travelling bag ... Honest John insisted that his presence there was a mere coincidence.

‘I’ll plead guilty to an attempted breach of the Wildflowers Act’ he suggested by way of compromise.

Not everybody’s cup of tea; but it beats trying to read The Independent in bed.