How do you say 'goodbye' in Latin?

It is hard to imagine now, but when the history books of the future have forgotten about Jill Dando, they might yet recall that this was the week when Latin, the long-dead language at the root of European culture, was finally kicked out of our courtrooms. Latin embers still glow in the legal world through its subpoenas, prima facie evidence, hearings in camera and pleas of nolo contendere or nolle prosequi. So although the linguistic changes were announced only as part of a wider reform of our legal system, they do represent a historic shift. There will be few mourners. Our poets will probably not rush to write classical elegies on the death of a language (Ubi sunt the good old days?). And plaintiffs (sorry, "claimants") might be pleased that legal procedures are to become semi-comprehensible. Crusaders for plain English were delighted, declaring it the dawn of a "crystal clear era" for justice in this country.

This seems optimistic, to say the least: there are an awful lot of pompous lawyerly heretofores and aforementioneds still blocking the path to crystal clarity. The law has been a byword for stuffy circumlocution (to use a hale old English term) ever since Dickens examined the deadly case of Jarndyce vs Jarndyce in Bleak House. Only the most zealous classicist could really be sad that words such as ex parte and inter partes will echo through the land no more. They seem to have no purpose other than to express an elevated disdain for the ignorant masses - as if a few learnt-by-rote old chestnuts were a mark of intelligence.

It could, however, be a mistake to blame Latin for all of this. As we say round here, cucullus non facit monacum (the cowl does not make the monk). Pit bull enthusiasts are quick to insist that it is the owner, not the dog; and weapons fans always blame the hand, not the gun. It could well be that the arcane and obscure language of the law is down to lawyers, not their Latin. If anything, antique phrases add texture to a language that otherwise strives to be neutral. And the nuggets of Latin on the surface are only the surviving hints of what once was a rich seam. Almost all our words for legal affairs - chancellors, magistrates, judges, juries, injunctions, advocates, petitions and alibis - are Latin terms; they demonstrate our debt to the Romans who codified so many of the relationships between citizens. We dip into Latin every time we write a memo. To filter out these old relics is to erase the marks that history has left on the law. It is rather like scraping out the fossils in a chalk cliff, on the grounds that the cliff will be so much whiter without them.

There is a practical reason why the law has always used such elevated (or pretentious) language. It is part of the strategy by which it poses as a remote and impersonal wielder of justice. Latin terms are simply the verbal equivalent of wigs and robes, part of the garb with which the law disguises its fallibility. But while losing them might seem to represent a straightforward gain in user-friendliness, there may be a price. From now on we will not plead with any sense of being supplicants to some lofty, perhaps merciful goddess of justice; we will simply make a "statement of case". We will not receive a summons; merely an "application". It certainly seems wise to refer to children as "children", not minors; but hardly an advance to have to ask for "permission" instead of leave. The formal flavour of the law as it stands might be musty; but this might be better than no flavour at all.

Some small schism between the language of the streets and the language of justice is in any case part of the comedy of life in Britain. P G Wodehouse had a lot of fun banging on about "nolly prossy", jeering at the absurdity of the phrase while enjoying the ring of it. And while all that kind of silly posturing has nothing to do with Latin phrasing per se (I mean, as such), the fondness for latinate constructions does have its roots in a desire to sound as grave as a Roman orator. It might sound ungainly, but it at least allows us to see the law as eccentric, a product of its own long and tortuous history.

In these multicultural times it seems almost out of kilter to be contracting rather than broadening the resources of a tongue. But maybe the new regulations, backed by 2,000 "volunteers" who will "monitor" the use of language in our courts, will induce in our lawyers a Freudian inability to hold back, and leave them post-propter-hoc-ing their way to a ticking-off. Meanwhile the court reports will continue to be brimming with ad hoc remarks, amazing non sequiturs and solemn references to the status quo.