"Come back AC"

When I was fourteen, I did something rather foolish at school. In these Cameron salad days, that admission sounds alarmingly trendy, but in fact my transgression was rather more serious than an indulgence in soft drugs, and I very much hoped it would remain undetected. Therefore it was not a pleasant feeling when my housemaster, in an announcement after lunch, used a formulation of words which – though innocent to the rest of the boys – made it clear that he was on to me.

A similar effect was achieved by the front page of the FT last week. The innocent formulation that caught my eye was this: “The tale of poisoned goldfish”. Anyone who has read my first post will understand why my stomach turned in on itself in a manner I haven’t experienced for a number of decades.

The revelation that this blog has caught the eye of Jonathan Guthrie, columnist for the Financial Times, coming as it did somewhere between Sussex and a London rail terminus (I find myself suddenly coy on the more specific details), brought with it a number of emotions. Aside from the initial nausea, the predominating reaction was one of wonder that I could have laboured so many years in the City without once doing anything to merit the several column inches devoted to this frankly trivial diary. Admittedly, private bankers aren't supposed to attract attention, but all the same it feels like a terrible indictment of my lacklustre career.

Of course, I'm grateful to Mr Guthrie for his kind review of my ramblings. It is without doubt the first time in my life I have been accorded the accolade, "a rare flash of talent". Mind you, I have a suspicion Mr Guthrie was merely hoping to soften the blow of his next, more accurate appraisal: "burnt-out". Ouch. Still, I can't fault the judgement of a man who uses splendid words like "helot" (which sent me scrambling for my dictionary).

I'm glad to say I can set the good Guthrie's concerns to rest: I haven't been fired. Admittedly, the likelihood of that fate is somewhat greater now. Indeed I've spent the last few days keeping a very low profile and praying that LL in particular should not have his attention drawn to the FT piece. But a week has passed, and I think I've got away with it. LL isn't terribly bright as it happens, so he might not actually recognize the published description of our shared contretemps. Have I been "toying with career suicide"? Perhaps, but interestingly my fear has always been that this might be read by clients, not colleagues. No doubt that says something about my naivety, but at least it shows I've been well trained in the private banking code of client confidentiality. As the internet address was not published, I'm counting on the general laziness of my colleagues to prevent them seeking out this blog.

No, I haven't been fired. In fact, the reason for my silence has been rather more serious. I have been ill. Not physically, but to my shame I have recently gone through what could best be described as a minor breakdown. It hasn't been obvious, I hope, to my colleagues and clients, but since this blog is all about honesty I may as well come clean on this matter too. I like to think I'm fairly robust, and that when push came to shove I wouldn't be too traumatised if someone took away my iPod or likened me to Mr Bean. But around the end of February, something just stopped functioning in my brain. It had a lot to do with the sense of futility I experienced at the beginning of the year, and I don't want to dwell on the gloomy details, but suffice to say March was not a good month for me (or my poor, long-suffering family). At the time I suspected that this bloggish introspection might have contributed to my malaise, and so it seemed wise to stop it for a while. However I've since taken a very pleasant and relaxing holiday, and am feeling much more positive about this banking life. So what if it is futile? The money's good, and excellent restaurants are always close at hand. Besides, nothing could better stroke a burnt-out banker’s ego than a direct appeal for more from the pages of the FT. Jonathan, how could my vanity resist your flattery?