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 for sometime, but this initially grated on me like the gnawing of teeth, or public sniffing, sans tissue, on a packed tube.

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