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