M's Prospective Girlfriend

M chose a restaurant in Islington. A good one.

As cover I took my PA, who found the whole escapade great fun. It's a terrible thing to say, but I realised I hadn't ever spoken to her in depth before. Over duck terrine and salmon risotto, she revealed all kinds of interesting things about herself and her aspirations, and I was thoroughly enjoying the conversation - to the extent that I forgot briefly why we were there. It turns out she has an ambition to become a concert pianist. Unlike to happen at this stage in life, I fear, but it's nice to think of that talent lying just beneath the surface.

Then M arrived, and my goodness, his girlfriend-to-be was an attractive young lady. They were led more or less straight past us, and M had to feign great interest in some colourful prints on the wall to avoid seeing me so early on in the proceedings. He wanted time for her to get settled before judgement commenced.

In due course he "noticed" me and came galloping over, red-faced, to act out his delight. I rose, introduced him to my PA, then in turn was introduced to the gf-to-be.

'How do you know M?' she immediately asked, and although we'd rehearsed this one I still found it remarkably difficult to reel off the line about family friends. I'm a terrible liar/actor. It didn't help that M was growing redder by the second.

We talked about this and that - the weather mostly, I fear, and a Gorky play at the National. Gf-to-be revealed very little, but did it charmingly and with buckets of respect for my advanced age. Her teeth were her great asset, glowing magnificently when she smiled. Which she did most of the time.

Somewhat blinded, I made my excuses and got back to dessert and tales of piano recitals in the suburbs. The bill, when it came, bore the grand total of NIL.

Three hours later, M rang me.

'Nothing to worry about,' I assured him. 'She's absolutely lovely.'

'She is, isn't she?' he said, gratitude flooding the line.

'She really is,' I affirmed.

And that's why there's no point telling him she's going to take him for a small fortune.

Saturday morning. The day looks like being overcast but pleasant. My youngest has demolished two bowls of weetabix and is alight with excitement at spending the morning "with Daddy on the island".

My wife is having a well-deserved lie-in. Mind you, if she is wise she will be bracing herself for whatever wildlife trophy is to be rushed into the bedroom in about an hour's time. Family bliss.

LL has donated all the fivers to Oxfam, including - and he made a point of saying this - the one he thinks was his. He spent most of yesterday, once he'd got over the initial embarrassment of his windfall, pretending he thought the matter had been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. 'I think I've made my point,' I overheard him say. Poor fellow.

He will recover in time, I'm sure. And now, enough thoughts of the office for this weekend. I'm going naturing.

Decorated Desk

LL isn't in yet, and he really should be because his desk is quite a sight.

After the stern reprimand on office humour yesterday, LL must have felt even more of an ass because he sent out another memo: I like a joke too, as you all know, but not when clients can hear. Lets try to be professional. The five pounds has still not been returned, so I hope whoever took it will have it back on my desk by tomorrow morning. It's between you and your conscience.

Well, it seems a lot of consciences have been pricked, because LL's desk is this morning covered in five-pound notes. I count 18, bluetacked to his monitor, his framed yacht photo, his intray, his mouse, even the little ball he kneads when stressed.

Needless to say, the entire office is on tenterhooks for his reaction.

Much mirth has been had at LL's expense, over the five-pound note business, and I regret to say he has not taken it well.

The last straw was the freshman colleague who, passing LL's desk, asked, 'Has that stolen cash turned up yet?' An innocent question you might think, even if the look of concern was somewhat insincere. LL did not take it as such. He happened to be on the phone to a client at the time, and considers the possibility that said client heard the quip too awful for words.

LL has now taken the case to senior management. The following memo has been issued: Jokes about theft in this bank will not be tolerated. This is a highly serious matter.

Of course it is.

LL in the lift, a look of saintly suffering on his face.

'Going to lunch?' I said. You have to pretend you like your colleagues at least.

'Too busy,' he said grandly. 'Just grabbing a sandwich.'

I couldn't resist it. 'Need to borrow a fiver?'

'That's neither funny nor original,' he snapped.

Oh dear.

Breaking news!

My sweet, trust-fund-laden boy-client, M, wants me to meet his new woman. He thinks, for some reason, that I will be able to determine whether or not she's trustworthy.

An extraordinary assignment, but I'm to get a free lunch out of it, and that is always welcome. It's to be rather cloak-and-dagger so that she doesn't realize she's being inspected. "By chance" we shall happen to choose the same restaurant some time next week, and M will introduce her to me without revealing our professional relationship. A little small talk, and then I shall return to my dessert, opinion to be forwarded to M later in the day.

It adds spice to life, does it not?

Bank Theft

Here's a Monday morning nonsense to take your mind off Northern Rock.

LL has put out a memo demanding the immediate return of the five-pound note that (I quote) "was illegitimately removed by persons unknown over the weekend" from his desk.

Quite apart from the fact that LL earns well over 300K and should be a good few miles above this kind of schoolroom communique, does he honestly think the demand is going to have any effect? Suppose some light-fingered lad in the Middle Office actually did purloin his fiver - and I struggle to believe it - the last thing he's going to do on receipt of this stern bulletin is rush to expiate his grievous sin. Like the rest of the office, he'll be too busy laughing. This is a bank, for goodness sake! You can't go around accusing people of theft in a bank. That is, I mean to say, not on such a risible scale at least.

There is no love lost between LL and I, but I do feel sorry for him that he has made such an ass of himself so early on in the week.

In to Lunch

I'm not a great one for standing on ceremony, but I do find the habit of eating lunch at one's desk quite repellant. It's not that I think everyone should be patronizing a reputable restaurant every day of the week. I choose to do so on a regular basis, but I'm also happy to procure a salad or a sandwich (if freshly made) and eat it in one of the lovely little enclosed gardens the City keeps hidden for its own. In rain or cold, there are plenty of indoor options for fast, cheap food. Yet still, so many of my beloved colleagues insist on dribbling crumbs into their keyboards and smearing mayonnaise over their mousepads.


It is barely past midday, and already one of my younger colleagues has set to on a carton of teriyaki, or laksa, or perhaps it is Thai red curry - some delight of the East anyway, emitting altogether far too many rampant odours. Fish sauce and lemongrass are fine in their place - but not this close to breakfast or, for that matter, to my desk.


It's all about face time I suppose. Bankers seem to believe the longer they are seen in the office, the higher their bonuses will be. Twenty minutes lost at lunchtime, to them, is wanton in the extreme. Never mind that they'll be doing nothing more useful than surfing the internet or completing a sudoku. Being seen is all that matters.

I'm going to lunch. I may be some time.

Paranoia

One of my more paranoid clients came by for a chat this morning.

Normally client paranoia concerns what business partners might be up to, or feckless children, or even what we bankers might be doing with all that hard-earned/inherited cash. This chap, unusually, was losing sleep over his love life.

M is a sweet boy - into jazz, golf and croquet. Has never done anything useful in life, but then has never done anything destructive either. A straightforward example of the British inheriting class.

And he's met a woman.

'That's great,' I said, wondering what he really wanted to talk about. Poor portfolio performance, presumably.

There was a pause.

'I hope so,' he said guardedly. 'I don't know. I'm not very experienced. Only had two... g-girlfriends before.'

He's 26, and perfectly good looking. Not particularly shy. The only reason he hasn't let himself go more freely with the fairer sex is paranoia. He's terrified of losing his inheritance to some fly-by-night Jezabel.

'What if she's just after child support?' he blurts out after I've failed to find an appropriate answer. 'Some girls are, aren't they? They do their research and find some rich idiot, then - bam!'

'But I thought you said she was a nice girl.'

'Oh, I really don't know anything about women.'

'Well...' I tried to think of a delicate way to put it. 'If you take it slowly... And make sure you use a condom...'

'There are ways round that,' he said, dismissively. 'You know what happened to Boris Becker.' (I didn't, but I looked it up later - how devilish) 'She might prick the condom with a needle. Or slit it with her nails... Or get me in such a... froth I say to hell with it and...'

M was very red-faced by this stage. It was painful to watch. Mind you, a mischievous part of my brain was wishing my secretary would walk in. Would have been priceless.

'I'm very fertile,' M added uncertainly. I didn't ask how he knew.

'Have you talked to your family about her?'

'No, of course not. I couldn't talk about this with them. Anyway, they want me to marry Elizabeth.'

'What exactly do you want from me?' I asked.

'Do you think I should trust her?'

'Yes.'

'Oh God,' he moaned, pressing his face into his hands. I've never seen anyone look so miserable.

Perhaps he's gay and this is all semi-conscious evasion.

A happy Sunday

My youngest has today conquered her fear of spiders.

Somehow this seems more important than anything just now. I'm sitting back with a gin and tonic, and the banking can go to hell. Summer is nearly over, we've barely seen any of it, but at least my little girl has broken the back of her phobia.

She has spent the day with me cataloguing the surprisingly plentiful wildlife in our little ecological island. There can be no greater joy than pottering with your offspring. She is going back to school tomorrow; I must face an angry Mancunian client in the aftermath of a back office cock-up. But both of us felt glorious all day long, gloomy weather and all.

She said to me, "Daddy, I've decided I'm going to pick up a spider today."

It was as simple as that. After years of bolting in fear at every 8-legged alien in bathtub or cupboard, she calmly went off in search of her nemesis and did the deed. God knows what courage it took. But her hand, when she presented the creature to me for inspection, was perfectly steady.

Brave, brilliant girl.