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