An angry encounter with a close friend, who will remain nameless for obvious reasons, got me thinking. Thinking about useless, empty, cavanous emotions that eat away at us and destroy our perspective on life. One such emotion is good old Jealousy, such a futile emotion that causes such destruction. The friend in question often adopts a Jekyll and Hyde-esque approach to things, meaning I'm often uncertain as to the response I'll get about the most futile of subjects. Crunching around on my metaphorical eggshells is not generally something I am that accustomed to, but even I, in all my feisty glory, find myself doing exactly this at times to keep the peace. But, with patience waning and curiosity as to the origin of these explosions, I can't help wondering whether jealousy is in someway a cause, or is it insecurity, or a finely tuned mix of both.
So, whilst thinking over the past few days, having been on the receiving end of another rather impassioned vitriol, and having applied a modicum of psychoanalysis (gleaned from my "psychology for dummies" book), I've come the conclusion that much of the anger and hatred in this world stems from jealousy. The burning ephagies of bankers, with their acerbic banners of "burn the banker" alongside them, are proof of this. Last summers riots in London, the eviscerated streets of the inner city, reminents of burnt cars and smashed shops that had fallen foul to masked raiders, are proof of this. The May Day riots, to me just socialist code for green haired swamp donkeys,(my own term for the great unwashed), that wish to deface public property and cause unrest, under the guise of opposing capitalism, are just another example of jealousy.
I could pursue this line of thought for many more blogs, as it is something I feel very strongly about, but with time being a commodity in short supply for me, I'll round it up.
Don't be jealous, be happy with who you are, if you aren't happy with who you are in life, only you can change that, everyone has the power to take control of their own destiny. It takes effort, things don't come easily, but think how much more fulfilling achievement is in life, rather than wasting it on empty emotions. And, remember, ethics are what you have when no one is around.
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage
Tuesday, 21 February 2012
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
Cupcakes and Competition.
As it was Valentine's day yesterday, I spent my evening cooking for my beloved (hence the absence of a blog last night), this all being part of my new found desire to be a domestic goddess. Not that I'm competitive or anything but I did feel a small pang of jealousy (ok I am being polite, it bordered on irritation) when I saw pictures of my Aunt's wonderfully presented heart-topped cupcakes and table laden in romance paraphernalia. Nigella Lawson reincarnate appears to have set up home in leafy Hampshire (note to self, must improve table presentation and include cupcakes at next big dinner and invite said Aunt). To add salt to the wound, I then facetimed my family (I know, how has face time become part of our normal vocabulary) only to see my Aunt smiling jauntily, with not a care in the world, nor a hair out of place, showing no signs of the the anxiexty that usually graces the face of a chef that's just cooked enough to feed a third world country.
So, pride swallowed, inadequacies noted, it got me thinking. Competitiveness, is it healthy? Would I want my children to be as competitive as me? Half the reason I became a trader and continued with my relentless schedule of 5am starts and endless nights out with clients, was because I am competitive, to the point where in the past it has consumed me. I always had to do things quicker, better, faster. This hasn't changed but it has dulled. Quite why it has dulled I am not sure. Maybe stability, contententedness, maturity, or all of the above, but I like this new found dullness. I don't feel the need to get the last word in an argument anymore or to prove I'm right at every chance. I actually enjoy taking a breath these days, learning from others, absorbing what those around me have to teach.
So what have I learnt today....I should have made bloody cupcakes!!!
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage
So, pride swallowed, inadequacies noted, it got me thinking. Competitiveness, is it healthy? Would I want my children to be as competitive as me? Half the reason I became a trader and continued with my relentless schedule of 5am starts and endless nights out with clients, was because I am competitive, to the point where in the past it has consumed me. I always had to do things quicker, better, faster. This hasn't changed but it has dulled. Quite why it has dulled I am not sure. Maybe stability, contententedness, maturity, or all of the above, but I like this new found dullness. I don't feel the need to get the last word in an argument anymore or to prove I'm right at every chance. I actually enjoy taking a breath these days, learning from others, absorbing what those around me have to teach.
So what have I learnt today....I should have made bloody cupcakes!!!
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage
Monday, 13 February 2012
Philosophical
So, as expected, I am feeling Philosophical. I spent most of yesterday deep in thought, thinking about how hardened one becomes in life, immune to feeling any compassion and at times living in a self-obsessed bubble. No job is guiltier of adding to this bubble of narcissism than mine. The banking-world, more notably the trading arena, is a fast paced, egotistical, money-hungry world. There’s still a fair share of Ferrari's around, although I think the new purchases in the last few yrs have gone down significantly. Rolex’s are two a penny and holidays to the Maldives are seen as normal form. I am not ashamed to say, as hindsight is a wonderful thing, but it is a world you get easily drawn into at first, blind sided by the material wealth, the cool bars and eating establishments one frequents with clients, the ease with which you can have a dinner at one of the numerous Michelin starred restaurants in London. Or at least back then that was the case, before the age of extreme cost-cutting and the debacle that is the Eurozone currently.
I first landed myself in the thick of the zoo that is the trading floor when I was 23. It being 2012 now, red tape abound and everything a little less “sexist” shall we say, things are tamer compared to those days, the late 1990’s were raucous, but to many it would still be an ‘eye-opener’ to see it now. In those days guys thought nothing of spending almost every night in an ‘adult entertainment' club shall we say, expenses were signed and no questions were asked.
At the tender age of 23 the trappings impressed me, I was juvenile and inexperienced in life, I wanted to make my mark and prove myself, show I could compete with the men. I still do want to prove myself, I never want to feel I’m not achieving, I just don’t mark my success according to material trappings anymore. Don’t get me wrong I like to work and achieve and by default it enables you to get better things in life, but its not ‘my world’, the be all and end all. I stand on the peripheral now and I watch with vague amusement. I consider myself much more successful now, in the respect that I have an amazing fiancée, wonderful family and friends that are the stalwarts of my very existence, that’s success in a true sense.
So as I walk home, past the usual tramp that never begs. This tramp's resilience, the fact he never begs, amazes me. Such an affluent suburb and yet he never begs, things like that stick in my mind, that shows the essence of someone, the inner strength he must have. Despite the cold, the hostile environment that is the streets, the cardboard he lays on as his mattress, he never begs. Never before was it clearer to me, than when I walked past and left him another coffee and a £2 coin, that no matter what trappings you have, its who you are, what you are to the core that counts.
So, as turn the light off I can’t help feeling, what is this all about? And just As I turn to dose I answer my own question, it's about being true yourself and never losing site of compassion.
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage.
I first landed myself in the thick of the zoo that is the trading floor when I was 23. It being 2012 now, red tape abound and everything a little less “sexist” shall we say, things are tamer compared to those days, the late 1990’s were raucous, but to many it would still be an ‘eye-opener’ to see it now. In those days guys thought nothing of spending almost every night in an ‘adult entertainment' club shall we say, expenses were signed and no questions were asked.
At the tender age of 23 the trappings impressed me, I was juvenile and inexperienced in life, I wanted to make my mark and prove myself, show I could compete with the men. I still do want to prove myself, I never want to feel I’m not achieving, I just don’t mark my success according to material trappings anymore. Don’t get me wrong I like to work and achieve and by default it enables you to get better things in life, but its not ‘my world’, the be all and end all. I stand on the peripheral now and I watch with vague amusement. I consider myself much more successful now, in the respect that I have an amazing fiancée, wonderful family and friends that are the stalwarts of my very existence, that’s success in a true sense.
So as I walk home, past the usual tramp that never begs. This tramp's resilience, the fact he never begs, amazes me. Such an affluent suburb and yet he never begs, things like that stick in my mind, that shows the essence of someone, the inner strength he must have. Despite the cold, the hostile environment that is the streets, the cardboard he lays on as his mattress, he never begs. Never before was it clearer to me, than when I walked past and left him another coffee and a £2 coin, that no matter what trappings you have, its who you are, what you are to the core that counts.
So, as turn the light off I can’t help feeling, what is this all about? And just As I turn to dose I answer my own question, it's about being true yourself and never losing site of compassion.
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage.
Sunday, 12 February 2012
I'm drunk. Ive had three wines, in my new more moderated world, thats drunk. Normally three wines was my starter to client drinks, id down them with colleagues before everyone arrived to get the night going! So this morning we went to church, he made us feel guilty! The father, to whom I focused my attention on, looked jaw clenchingly at for some recognition, made me feel guilty! He talked of compassion, generosity of spirit, giving to those who are not doing as well as us!... I gave to my favourite homeless man last night, he got his usual coffee and 2 pounds.... Thats ok right??? All I can say is I'm going into tomorrow's trading world feeling v philosophical ....what is all this about?
Good night
Miss McArbitrage
Good night
Miss McArbitrage
Saturday, 11 February 2012
Grumpy
I was very irritable yesterday, despite it being Friday, i couldn't shake it. So much so that I forgot to post this blog last night and instead sort solace in a large glass of Malbec.
So, here is Yesterday's blog:
Im grumpy. Downright, hormone fuelled, grumpy. I feel like a barrel on legs, due to my inexplicable water retention and my skin looks like a new golfer, in possession of a 4 iron, has chipped his way round the course that is my face. I despise the world and all who inhabit it. Muttering non-sensically to myself I feel for the light switch. I’m back to feeling my way round the terrain of the bedroom as my other half is still away on business and I secretly get a kick out of seeing him break into a mild sweat at the site of the collection of finger prints the walls have amassed in his absence. Scattered sporadically across various surfaces that lead the path to my bathroom, the prints are gleaming nicely in the half light. He is fully stashed with newly purchased strong weave flash wipes, so i’m not totally evil (although, note to self, would be amusing to leave prints and run out of strong weave wipes, then watch the implosion infront of my very eyes).
Hot towel on, Moroccan shampoo and conditioner in hand I pad my way to the shower. Yep, today is definitely a fat day, boys on the floor beware.
I have always been told, or rather I learnt the hard way early on in my career, never let them see your Achilles heel. Them being the collective for all who is male on a trading floor in the city, notably the traders themselves, analysts and sales guys are way down the ranking of offensiveness when it comes to chastising and ridiculing. Some not used to the industry could go as far as to call it bullying, but I think that’s a little harsh in most cases, this tephlon plated woman gives a lot back too. I once had an old boss that used to walk round me pretending I was a round about, every time I walked past, he’d circle me like an articulated lorry trying to do a three point turn, I hasten to add that I have always been a UK size 8, admittedly occasionally fluctuating between a 6 and a 8 but never larger. He then used to make a loud beeping sound, emulating that of a lorry’s reverse signal, occasionally saying "wide load coming through". You guessed it, my achilles heel is my weight.
The knowledge that I was fairly small did nothing to dispel my deep upset and anger at this, emotions that I shrouded with a sickly, Jack Nicholson in the shining-esque smile.
So I enter the trading floor, the grumpiness etched on my face. I feel antisocial, it is all I can do to grunt hello to the two others on the desk. Its 610am and i'm feeling annoyed. The stragglers file in, hanging coats, changing into their Church's shoes from their scuffed station brogues and guzzling coffee from paper cups. And so the ridiculous football chatter ensues, I stare at my screen, this white noise means nothing to me. Several paper balls whistle precariously past my ears and then the breakfast run begins. The junior on the floor files obediently around each desk collecting orders, he gets to me and throwing caution to the wind I order a bacon sandwich, sod calories I feel angry, I need comfort food. And that's when it happens. A sniggering voice at the side of me says "whoa fatty be careful with that". Without a second's breath I answer "okay and when do you intend to go ahead and have that nose operation or see to that receding hairline", disarmed and short of ammo, the assailant across the enemy line beside me says nothing, but the resounding laughter around us and the echoe of "one nil " said it all.
So tucking into my sandwich, laden in ketchup, I thought to myself, yes I've learnt that revealing ones Achilles heel isn't recommended in this job but the greater lesson I've learnt, is they all have one too.
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage
So, here is Yesterday's blog:
Im grumpy. Downright, hormone fuelled, grumpy. I feel like a barrel on legs, due to my inexplicable water retention and my skin looks like a new golfer, in possession of a 4 iron, has chipped his way round the course that is my face. I despise the world and all who inhabit it. Muttering non-sensically to myself I feel for the light switch. I’m back to feeling my way round the terrain of the bedroom as my other half is still away on business and I secretly get a kick out of seeing him break into a mild sweat at the site of the collection of finger prints the walls have amassed in his absence. Scattered sporadically across various surfaces that lead the path to my bathroom, the prints are gleaming nicely in the half light. He is fully stashed with newly purchased strong weave flash wipes, so i’m not totally evil (although, note to self, would be amusing to leave prints and run out of strong weave wipes, then watch the implosion infront of my very eyes).
Hot towel on, Moroccan shampoo and conditioner in hand I pad my way to the shower. Yep, today is definitely a fat day, boys on the floor beware.
I have always been told, or rather I learnt the hard way early on in my career, never let them see your Achilles heel. Them being the collective for all who is male on a trading floor in the city, notably the traders themselves, analysts and sales guys are way down the ranking of offensiveness when it comes to chastising and ridiculing. Some not used to the industry could go as far as to call it bullying, but I think that’s a little harsh in most cases, this tephlon plated woman gives a lot back too. I once had an old boss that used to walk round me pretending I was a round about, every time I walked past, he’d circle me like an articulated lorry trying to do a three point turn, I hasten to add that I have always been a UK size 8, admittedly occasionally fluctuating between a 6 and a 8 but never larger. He then used to make a loud beeping sound, emulating that of a lorry’s reverse signal, occasionally saying "wide load coming through". You guessed it, my achilles heel is my weight.
The knowledge that I was fairly small did nothing to dispel my deep upset and anger at this, emotions that I shrouded with a sickly, Jack Nicholson in the shining-esque smile.
So I enter the trading floor, the grumpiness etched on my face. I feel antisocial, it is all I can do to grunt hello to the two others on the desk. Its 610am and i'm feeling annoyed. The stragglers file in, hanging coats, changing into their Church's shoes from their scuffed station brogues and guzzling coffee from paper cups. And so the ridiculous football chatter ensues, I stare at my screen, this white noise means nothing to me. Several paper balls whistle precariously past my ears and then the breakfast run begins. The junior on the floor files obediently around each desk collecting orders, he gets to me and throwing caution to the wind I order a bacon sandwich, sod calories I feel angry, I need comfort food. And that's when it happens. A sniggering voice at the side of me says "whoa fatty be careful with that". Without a second's breath I answer "okay and when do you intend to go ahead and have that nose operation or see to that receding hairline", disarmed and short of ammo, the assailant across the enemy line beside me says nothing, but the resounding laughter around us and the echoe of "one nil " said it all.
So tucking into my sandwich, laden in ketchup, I thought to myself, yes I've learnt that revealing ones Achilles heel isn't recommended in this job but the greater lesson I've learnt, is they all have one too.
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage
Thursday, 9 February 2012
It is cold. Teeth gritting, finger burning, thigh freezingly cold. And Icy. The need to hover above my accelerator with a caution so intense, due to fear of a spectacular back spin, was all consuming this morning. I drove like the church morning’s contingent on their way into Tesco’s for their 11am grocery shop. Ice aware, I pulled into my regular, overly small, petrol station to fill up my gas guzzler. With space being a rare commodity in London this petrol station is about 1.5 cars wide (Fiat Puntos at best), always useful when two pumps are either side, and about 2.3 cars long (oh yes I’ve studied this quite intensely). I've spent many wasted minutes waiting at the bottle neck that is the entrance to this fuel filling cubbyhole. It is something I’ve learnt to accept as I’ve now been living in central London
As I rounded the pump I came to an abrupt halt, a rust infested Mercedes and black taxi that had seen better days, blocking the entrance (I always try and avoid those taxis, the ones that still have the push button door handles that break my nails when I try to open them). Both owners were dithering at the checkout in the distance. What the hell can be such a big decision at this time in the morning that it takes you 3 sodding minutes (of course this is said in my head and not out loud). I am now officially late. I despise being late. I begin ferociously tapping my foot and banging the stearing wheel in a half hearted attempt to look as if I’m merely staying in sync with Guetta’s 'Titanium' (yes my headache has gone and I’m back to playing the urban beats). A space opens, Mercedes woman has waddled back, coffee in hand, and moved…. I circumnavigate the taxi and plant myself firmly at the foremost pump. For what seems like an age in Syberia I fill the car, frost biting at my nose (why I bother with the newest range of mineral makeup, when I arrive at the office looking like Rudolph, I don’t know). I stare aimlessly into the abyss, collating my thoughts for the day ahead. BHP, Statoil and International Power are reporting today. Oh, and I must check the latest on the Glencore/Xstrata merger. A break in my thoughts leads me to notice Taxi man, who is now heading towards me with a leary, semi pedophiliac look on his face, that sort half sneer, half smile, coupled with what is intended to be an intense gaze. Only now, do I realise I have actually got long boots and a shortish skirt on. Unfazed by any male advances, my trading background having left me with Teflon for skin, I only take notice due to his hat. It was one of those fur ones with two wings for ears, the type that you see the men in the North Pole wearing whilst out on husky trails. Unfortunately for him the right ear wing is standing at a 90 degree angle to his head, leaving him looking a bit like snoopy with an ear malfunction. I find myself silently sniggering. As he scuffles past, gaze still fixed leeringly between my face and chest I smother my giggles, and he says “nice car” my response,“nice hat". Baffled and a little deflated he hopped into his battered taxicab. My real satisfaction came when I glanced fleeting backwards to catch him looking into his mirror, only to spot the offending wing of his hat. Striding into the shop with the confidence of a cowboy having just dismounted his stallion, I smile, and I think to myself, yes Feisty is still here.
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Paranormal Pete
We have a ghost, a selfish, inconsiderate and untimely ghost. My new Boden Pyjamas appearing in the middle of the bathroom floor, having been stashed nicely under my pillow, didn't faze me. The bizarre disappearance of my (as you are already aware), expensive, Harley Street crafted, whitening gum shields admittedly left me a little concerned, but the real onerous bug bear is the infamous TV turn on. He's playing with me. He knows my timetable, even the muffin delivery man at the bakery down the street knows my timetable. The tramp hovering in the stair well opposite, that I leave a pound on a Monday and a Friday, in hope he'll show me loyalty and not rob me in the darkness, knows my timetable. The police lingering expectantly in the shadows, speed gun in hand, know my timetable. Yet, this inconsiderate paranormal being, that has seen it fit to set up home in our flat, has decided to play at the most inconvenient of hours.
Still being in the throws of our honeymoon period I don't like to head to bed with hair on top, gum shields in and spot cream abound, but when the Fiancee is away I don my most thermal of bed shorts and jump into slumber sporting this very ensemble. Having watched some MTV tedium, another activity I engage in at full throttle when my Fiancee isn't in town (regularly engulfing myself in a tidal wave of Kardashian's and Real House Wives), I hit the lights, and yes, you guessed it, it is pre 9pm.
Dreaming pleasantly of various teeth falling out and catching my feet on fences as I try to fly away from a rabid dog I am woken suddenly (I'm told such dreams are signs of deep disturbance but I view them with vague amusement.....Of course I am deeply disturbed, I am a trader). He's back, the phantom TV switcher. The TV goes on, I turn if off. 5 minutes passes and it goes on, I get angry at this point and say (in a very controlled and amiable manner in an attempt to reason with Paranormal Pete) "please I am trying to sleep". 10 minutes later, having been lulled into a false sense of slumbersome security, it goes on again. This time, fuelled by despair, anger and a modicum of delirium I yell "For christ sake ghost, please stop, I don't sleep as it is, You try getting up at bloody 5am (at this point I am blot upright and wagging my finger frantically into the air ... I mean WTF are you playing at".... only then do i realise this is out loud and into the darkness that is my bedroom, a faint orchestra of cars horns acting as a backing track.
As I settle back to bed I can't help thinking.... Does this job effect me? Am I as anti social at times as my Fiancee has been known to delicately point out. My conclusion, NO I am just bloody tired.
Goodnight ghost....
Miss McArbitrage.
Still being in the throws of our honeymoon period I don't like to head to bed with hair on top, gum shields in and spot cream abound, but when the Fiancee is away I don my most thermal of bed shorts and jump into slumber sporting this very ensemble. Having watched some MTV tedium, another activity I engage in at full throttle when my Fiancee isn't in town (regularly engulfing myself in a tidal wave of Kardashian's and Real House Wives), I hit the lights, and yes, you guessed it, it is pre 9pm.
Dreaming pleasantly of various teeth falling out and catching my feet on fences as I try to fly away from a rabid dog I am woken suddenly (I'm told such dreams are signs of deep disturbance but I view them with vague amusement.....Of course I am deeply disturbed, I am a trader). He's back, the phantom TV switcher. The TV goes on, I turn if off. 5 minutes passes and it goes on, I get angry at this point and say (in a very controlled and amiable manner in an attempt to reason with Paranormal Pete) "please I am trying to sleep". 10 minutes later, having been lulled into a false sense of slumbersome security, it goes on again. This time, fuelled by despair, anger and a modicum of delirium I yell "For christ sake ghost, please stop, I don't sleep as it is, You try getting up at bloody 5am (at this point I am blot upright and wagging my finger frantically into the air ... I mean WTF are you playing at".... only then do i realise this is out loud and into the darkness that is my bedroom, a faint orchestra of cars horns acting as a backing track.
As I settle back to bed I can't help thinking.... Does this job effect me? Am I as anti social at times as my Fiancee has been known to delicately point out. My conclusion, NO I am just bloody tired.
Goodnight ghost....
Miss McArbitrage.
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
My head hurts and it actually isn't alcohol. I've been feeling unwell for a few days, so the screeching 5am alarm this morning was all the more unbearable. In a normal world, if you had been hugging the toilet basin all night and had had less than two hours sleep, you wouldn't go in. But, the dread of being frowned upon, not wanting to be the 'weak' female amidst the male pride that inhabits my desk, and the incessant reminder of a need to reach commission levels propelled me into the shower, almost spraining my ankle on the 5 inch Choo's by the door. Light is a rare commodity at this time of the day, one has to be courteous to those around us who remain happy in slumber for a few hours more. I often use my Iphone as a torch (nothing as flash as the actual torch app that i've been told is available, just me randomly pressing the volume button on and off so I can reach for matching underwear and a colour-coordinated scarf in relative darkness). The initial method of feeling for the walls to guide myself has left my OCD-inflicted fiancee with far too many finger marks to clean up for his liking.
It started at 540am as I pulled up at the traffic lights, lightly humming Ed Sheeran's 'Lego House', my episode of 'deep thought' that is, the one that clouded the rest of my day (well that along with the raging temperature, pounding head and sickness I don't seem to be able to shake). My usual music of choice at that time has a little more base, David Guetta or Rihanna have been recent favourites, the beat gets me into my 'trading' frame of mind, but with illness deeply embedded in my cranium I opted for the more mellow option this morning. So, I sat at the lights and the usual entourage of vehicles nestled around in the various lanes beside me. The new blue Aston with the man who smokes frantically, check. The black 4S with the little guy that needs a booster seat, check. The small, but surprisingly fast, new mini coupe driven by a giant thats shoe horned himself into it, check....and then, out of the shadows, came white van man, the Bain of my driving, road-rage inflicted life. He rev's incessantly beside me and with military precision I resist looking at him and his gawping side kick and focus on the lights, their bright red hue refusing to change to amber. And then, the defining moment, one that left me pondering all day, the lights went green. With his exhaust at full gusto, white van man floored the accelerator, every inch of the van's metal groaning at the prospect of being propelled forward, and he sped away into the distance. White van man had left me standing and I didn't react. What has happened to me? Why didn't I race him? Have I lost my fire? The feistiness that has seen me through every day on the trading floor for 12 bizarre, colourful years, has it dwindled into a shadow of its former self? Surely, that 'change', the one my numerous male colleagues assure me i'll have, hasn't set in.... I can't secretly be craving a flour ravished kitchen, bedecked with newly made cupcakes, and the donning of a MILF emblazoned apron can I?...
With a coffee and Nurofen in hand I logged into Bloomberg and wondered..... Was this the end of the road for Feisty? Was I mellowing into a non-recognisable, heavily domesticated, pulp? Well, I had opted to cook on Sunday, rather than choose from the plethora of London restaurants my fiancee offered...
With my morning note complete, a list of early stock indications assembled, numerous Bloomberg chats fired off to clients and 2 buy orders and a sell entered by 8.10am I can't help thinking, I simply must try out that new Scallops with Pea puree recipe when my Fiancee gets back from his travels.
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage
It started at 540am as I pulled up at the traffic lights, lightly humming Ed Sheeran's 'Lego House', my episode of 'deep thought' that is, the one that clouded the rest of my day (well that along with the raging temperature, pounding head and sickness I don't seem to be able to shake). My usual music of choice at that time has a little more base, David Guetta or Rihanna have been recent favourites, the beat gets me into my 'trading' frame of mind, but with illness deeply embedded in my cranium I opted for the more mellow option this morning. So, I sat at the lights and the usual entourage of vehicles nestled around in the various lanes beside me. The new blue Aston with the man who smokes frantically, check. The black 4S with the little guy that needs a booster seat, check. The small, but surprisingly fast, new mini coupe driven by a giant thats shoe horned himself into it, check....and then, out of the shadows, came white van man, the Bain of my driving, road-rage inflicted life. He rev's incessantly beside me and with military precision I resist looking at him and his gawping side kick and focus on the lights, their bright red hue refusing to change to amber. And then, the defining moment, one that left me pondering all day, the lights went green. With his exhaust at full gusto, white van man floored the accelerator, every inch of the van's metal groaning at the prospect of being propelled forward, and he sped away into the distance. White van man had left me standing and I didn't react. What has happened to me? Why didn't I race him? Have I lost my fire? The feistiness that has seen me through every day on the trading floor for 12 bizarre, colourful years, has it dwindled into a shadow of its former self? Surely, that 'change', the one my numerous male colleagues assure me i'll have, hasn't set in.... I can't secretly be craving a flour ravished kitchen, bedecked with newly made cupcakes, and the donning of a MILF emblazoned apron can I?...
With a coffee and Nurofen in hand I logged into Bloomberg and wondered..... Was this the end of the road for Feisty? Was I mellowing into a non-recognisable, heavily domesticated, pulp? Well, I had opted to cook on Sunday, rather than choose from the plethora of London restaurants my fiancee offered...
With my morning note complete, a list of early stock indications assembled, numerous Bloomberg chats fired off to clients and 2 buy orders and a sell entered by 8.10am I can't help thinking, I simply must try out that new Scallops with Pea puree recipe when my Fiancee gets back from his travels.
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage
Monday, 6 February 2012
So, with gum shields in place (the over priced Harley St dentist, recommended to me by a fellow colleague, assures me they work and warrant the premium charged for this whitening experience), alarm set to 5am and second alarm set to 505am, I am in bed at the grand hour of 830pm. I have missed an alarm twice in twelve years but the idea of it still fills me with dread, well that and the fact it is a trading floor rule that you buy everyone on the floor breakfast if you miss the market open, not to be sniffed at in light of the current economic environment and taking into account some of the gluttonous appetites that exist on the floor. Back to my childish hour of slumber, 830pm I hear you whisper, only those in the hub of the frenetic equities trading world will understand this, the need to grasp every chance of an early night with open arms and embrace it. Its monday, an absolute no-go for client events (unless it is the 6 week lead up to Christmas), a confirmed gym night and an early to bed night..... and as it currently stands a 'sans alcohol' night (the reality of lying to the doctor for the past decade, re: my units consumed per wk, has set in, and i'm now trying to stick to Monday-Weds free of any booze). Originally, I planned to include Thursday, but as almost everyone knows, this is the City's Friday, so being alcohol exempt is highly unlikely.
Vaguely distracted, I can hear the faint laughter of people outside, they have a social life on a MONDAY???... 'freaks' I mouth (i find myself frowning with contempt but then realise it is creating furrowed lines in my brow that will only necessitate my need for Botox, so I put on my best 'expressionless' face and get ready to watch the last of Eastenders (I have a macabre fascination with it's relentless gloom and the characters that are stooped in domesticity and despair).
My clothes are laid out (i've always chosen them the night before, as the tiredness and inability to make decisive choices at 5am can be potentially dangerous to one's attire)... my handbag has been changed to match my outfit and an essential duo of flat shoes and 5 inch heels have been placed by the door (flats to walk to the station, but heels are a 'must' in the office and at client events). The City girl's uniform of black resonates throughout my choices for the day ahead. And now it is lights out (it it is 845pm and loaded with Nytol I reach for the standby button).
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage
Vaguely distracted, I can hear the faint laughter of people outside, they have a social life on a MONDAY???... 'freaks' I mouth (i find myself frowning with contempt but then realise it is creating furrowed lines in my brow that will only necessitate my need for Botox, so I put on my best 'expressionless' face and get ready to watch the last of Eastenders (I have a macabre fascination with it's relentless gloom and the characters that are stooped in domesticity and despair).
My clothes are laid out (i've always chosen them the night before, as the tiredness and inability to make decisive choices at 5am can be potentially dangerous to one's attire)... my handbag has been changed to match my outfit and an essential duo of flat shoes and 5 inch heels have been placed by the door (flats to walk to the station, but heels are a 'must' in the office and at client events). The City girl's uniform of black resonates throughout my choices for the day ahead. And now it is lights out (it it is 845pm and loaded with Nytol I reach for the standby button).
Goodnight
Miss McArbitrage
Good evening, and welcome to my first official post on my blog. A bout of sickness, and a reluctance to engage in any mind-numbing viewing of Jeremy Kyle, has meant i've found myself strewn on the sofa with keyboard in hand. A long standing passion of mine has been to write. For some years now i have recorded events, situations (some good, some bad and some downright ridiculous) amusing anecdotes and the odd tearful dash to the bathroom, in endless notebooks that are stashed in a box behind my ever growing handbag collection. Failure to publish yet (as in honesty i haven't finished the book), has lead me to blogging's door. Writing is my form of escapism, a metaphorical dash in the other direction from the rat race that is the city. Putting pen to paper or tapping my thoughts into a keyboard, is an escape from the 5am starts, the glorified pub crawls (if it's in Mayfair it doesn't count as crass or binge drinking), the perfection of the 'broker laugh' and much much more.
So watch this space.
Miss Mcarbitrage
So watch this space.
Miss Mcarbitrage
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