A good day. But will it last? Does anyone out there know what's going on?
Sometimes I'm tempted to move all of my clients' money into cash. Euros, probably. I think I may be too old for another prolonged teetering on the brink. Just too weary, too bored, too strained.
On the other hand, I had a drink this evening with a fund manager friend who is convinced this current uncertainty is going to make a lot of careers. Just choose the right way to jump when the cards tumble and you'll be lionised for years. Doesn't matter if all your subsequent decisions are mediocre. Your reputation will be made.
Which way to jump? Ah well, indeed. But perhaps it doesn't very much matter, so long as you jump with confidence and conviction - cleanly, and very visibly. If you get it wrong, well, lots of people will be in the same position. You lick your wounds, crawl around in humble pie for a while, and get on with it. But on the other hand, if you get it right! What glories await!
Strangely, I find that prospect less tempting than my fund manager friend. It grieves me that the appetite for glory has faded, but I fear it's undeniable. Is there a place for anyone in the City who doesn't have at least a hooded eye on the victor's laurel?
What do you think? Comments or emails please...
Wednesday 28 November 2007
Tuesday 20 November 2007
Sunday 18 November 2007
The Pond
Today was Pond Day.
Every island should have a pond. Correction, according to my children it should have a waterfall and full river system, but resources, dimensions and gradients only permitted a pond. This, in case you weren't reading over the summer, concerns my ecological "island" - the fields adjoining our house which I am converting into a wildlife sanctuary for migrating birds and anything else that finds the end result convivial.
We have had a digger booked for sometime, a friendly local builder who is busy doing serious things during the week, but kindly offered to come round and make a hole for us on his day off. One might have wished for better weather than the grey, wet gloom we've had today, but no matter. We only needed to shift earth, not lay concrete.
Of course it wasn't that easy. Access was the first problem. We thought we'd solved this by negotiating access through the neighbouring fields, but when the new metropolitan owner of the farm saw the machine we intended to drive over his delicate thistles and dandelions, he had a change of heart. He is most definitely not in my good books now. Luckily an alternative (if not entirely legal or direct) route was possible through a woodland, and so a full-blown eruption of tears was avoided in my littlest.
Then the machine got bogged down.
For some naive reason, I've always imagined diggers couldn't get bogged down. I don't know why I thought they weren't susceptible to the same terrain difficulties other vehicles experience, but now I have learnt my lesson. It took a good hour to wrestle it free, using every rock and branch we could find to give it some traction. Lunch was postponed. The extra hot tank was switched on in readiness for all the extra baths our exertions made necessary. But eventually the digger dug and the pond came into being, minus the water.
My youngest has never been muddier. Or, possibly, happier.
It's about fifteen feet across and six feet deep. Quite a hole. The next stage is to line it with clay and then let the autumn weather do its stuff. I can't say it looks very attractive at the moment, although my daughter apparently sees it as the very best kind of adventure playground. Still, I can easily imagine it filled with reeds, a couple of coots and a heron making good use of its nesting/hunting potential. I might even find a punt for it - something I can lie back in and listen to the cricket without interruption.
A pleasant dream for a wet November afternoon.
And now, finally, for lunch.
Every island should have a pond. Correction, according to my children it should have a waterfall and full river system, but resources, dimensions and gradients only permitted a pond. This, in case you weren't reading over the summer, concerns my ecological "island" - the fields adjoining our house which I am converting into a wildlife sanctuary for migrating birds and anything else that finds the end result convivial.
We have had a digger booked for sometime, a friendly local builder who is busy doing serious things during the week, but kindly offered to come round and make a hole for us on his day off. One might have wished for better weather than the grey, wet gloom we've had today, but no matter. We only needed to shift earth, not lay concrete.
Of course it wasn't that easy. Access was the first problem. We thought we'd solved this by negotiating access through the neighbouring fields, but when the new metropolitan owner of the farm saw the machine we intended to drive over his delicate thistles and dandelions, he had a change of heart. He is most definitely not in my good books now. Luckily an alternative (if not entirely legal or direct) route was possible through a woodland, and so a full-blown eruption of tears was avoided in my littlest.
Then the machine got bogged down.
For some naive reason, I've always imagined diggers couldn't get bogged down. I don't know why I thought they weren't susceptible to the same terrain difficulties other vehicles experience, but now I have learnt my lesson. It took a good hour to wrestle it free, using every rock and branch we could find to give it some traction. Lunch was postponed. The extra hot tank was switched on in readiness for all the extra baths our exertions made necessary. But eventually the digger dug and the pond came into being, minus the water.
My youngest has never been muddier. Or, possibly, happier.
It's about fifteen feet across and six feet deep. Quite a hole. The next stage is to line it with clay and then let the autumn weather do its stuff. I can't say it looks very attractive at the moment, although my daughter apparently sees it as the very best kind of adventure playground. Still, I can easily imagine it filled with reeds, a couple of coots and a heron making good use of its nesting/hunting potential. I might even find a punt for it - something I can lie back in and listen to the cricket without interruption.
A pleasant dream for a wet November afternoon.
And now, finally, for lunch.
Saturday 17 November 2007
Volatile Times
It hasn't been a very pleasant couple of weeks in the City. Too much uncertainty, too much worry about credit and interest rates and where the next slap of volatility is going to come from. What this means for the private banker is endless telephone conversations with nervous clients who want to know if now is the time to be buying gold (no!), or getting out of dollar-denominated funds entirely (possibly), and by the way what is going on with Northern Rock?
We factor in a certain amount of stroking time to this job, but the past fortnight has allowed me little chance to do anything else. It's hard enough keeping up oneself with what is going on in China, or the US credit market, without having to relate it to others the next minute in a smoothly-glossed patina of reassuring professional expertise.
The trouble is, of course, none of us really know what's going on. Perhaps a couple of geniuses out there know whether the FT-SE 100 is settling into a gentle downward slide that will continue for the rest of the year, or can predict which will be the next bank to announce a £1.3 billion write-off. But most of us are just blindly stumbling from day to day trying to do the best we can with the deeply questionable information we receive.
Brighter clients have always known this; they accept it and stick with us for want of any better alternative. The danger in times like these is that the less bright clients will start to wise up to our fumbling, and in panic withdraw their portfolios and bury their heads in nice safe gold.
There's an interesting thing you learn about private banking after you've been doing it for a while. Really, it doesn't matter all that much how good your investment performance is, so long as you can persuade your client that it is better than the general market. This can be done even in contradiction of the hardest of facts. It is the skill that defines the good "farmer". It combines good expectation management with a certain amount of technically-impressive bullshit.
I suspect I shall be getting a lot of practice over the coming weeks.
We factor in a certain amount of stroking time to this job, but the past fortnight has allowed me little chance to do anything else. It's hard enough keeping up oneself with what is going on in China, or the US credit market, without having to relate it to others the next minute in a smoothly-glossed patina of reassuring professional expertise.
The trouble is, of course, none of us really know what's going on. Perhaps a couple of geniuses out there know whether the FT-SE 100 is settling into a gentle downward slide that will continue for the rest of the year, or can predict which will be the next bank to announce a £1.3 billion write-off. But most of us are just blindly stumbling from day to day trying to do the best we can with the deeply questionable information we receive.
Brighter clients have always known this; they accept it and stick with us for want of any better alternative. The danger in times like these is that the less bright clients will start to wise up to our fumbling, and in panic withdraw their portfolios and bury their heads in nice safe gold.
There's an interesting thing you learn about private banking after you've been doing it for a while. Really, it doesn't matter all that much how good your investment performance is, so long as you can persuade your client that it is better than the general market. This can be done even in contradiction of the hardest of facts. It is the skill that defines the good "farmer". It combines good expectation management with a certain amount of technically-impressive bullshit.
I suspect I shall be getting a lot of practice over the coming weeks.
Wednesday 7 November 2007
18th - Part 2
Another recollection from the weekend.
There came a point, around 1am, when all the young were in a state of some disarray dancing in the morning room (the only room the National Trust would allow to be used as a disco – and even then I bet there was a fair amount of tooth-sucking in NTHQ). At that point T and I and a few other oldies retired with glasses of brandy (good stuff, though I forgot to ask what it was) to the library. Our number included a couple of godfathers, T’s golfing partner, Sarah’s two favourite teachers, and a man called Suds (I believe) whose provenance was never clear to me.
Suds was rich. This much became quickly apparent. He made no allowance for the fact that the teachers were most likely on the breadline, instead launching – as soon as he discovered my profession – into a rambling monologue about the trials of great wealth. MiFID, the new financial services directive that has just come into force, was of particular concern to him. He spoke at great length about it, placing the rest of us in an awkward position: the teachers and godfathers, because they were alienated and bored by the subject; me, because it rapidly became clear that Suds had completely failed to understand the point of MiFID, and anything I said would only draw attention to his ignorance.
Inevitably, we reached the point where Suds leaned across to me, all confiding, and said, ‘Go on then, tell us. Where should we really be putting our money?’
I gave the usual non-committal spiel about spreading risk and bewaring property, but that wasn’t enough for Suds. ‘Just give us a stock,’ he demanded. ‘Something you have the inside track on.’
T embarked on a polite attempt to distract Suds, but he wasn’t to be drawn. ‘We deal mostly in funds, these days,’ I said. ‘Or funds of funds. I could give you the names of a couple of good managers, if you like.’
But Suds had written me off. ‘Bloody City lot. Always the same. Won’t let the rest of us near the golden eggs, eh?’
An unfortunate metaphor to use, given what happened to the goose, but there we are.
Later, as I was retiring to my (rather fine) room overlooking the herb garden, T accompanied me up that marvellous staircase and said, ‘Bloody Spud, always drinks too much.’
‘I thought his name was Suds,’ I said.
‘Is it? Oh, maybe it is,’ said T, leaving me rather puzzled.
Sarah, her hair flying wild, came scampering across the hall at that moment, pursued by a handsome young rogue with flapping bowtie and scarlet cummerbund. Luckily she didn’t notice us halfway up the stairs, so whatever spark of romantic thrill the moment held for her wasn’t spoilt by her daddy witnessing it. The amorous couple disappeared into what I believe was the billiard room. A number of ball-and-cue-related innuendoes came to mind but I managed to resist voicing them.
‘She’s had a good night, hasn’t she?’ said T.
‘Oh yes,’ said I, loyally. ‘The best.’
‘It makes it all worthwhile, you know.’
‘Yes,’ I said, thinking of my own. It really does.
There came a point, around 1am, when all the young were in a state of some disarray dancing in the morning room (the only room the National Trust would allow to be used as a disco – and even then I bet there was a fair amount of tooth-sucking in NTHQ). At that point T and I and a few other oldies retired with glasses of brandy (good stuff, though I forgot to ask what it was) to the library. Our number included a couple of godfathers, T’s golfing partner, Sarah’s two favourite teachers, and a man called Suds (I believe) whose provenance was never clear to me.
Suds was rich. This much became quickly apparent. He made no allowance for the fact that the teachers were most likely on the breadline, instead launching – as soon as he discovered my profession – into a rambling monologue about the trials of great wealth. MiFID, the new financial services directive that has just come into force, was of particular concern to him. He spoke at great length about it, placing the rest of us in an awkward position: the teachers and godfathers, because they were alienated and bored by the subject; me, because it rapidly became clear that Suds had completely failed to understand the point of MiFID, and anything I said would only draw attention to his ignorance.
Inevitably, we reached the point where Suds leaned across to me, all confiding, and said, ‘Go on then, tell us. Where should we really be putting our money?’
I gave the usual non-committal spiel about spreading risk and bewaring property, but that wasn’t enough for Suds. ‘Just give us a stock,’ he demanded. ‘Something you have the inside track on.’
T embarked on a polite attempt to distract Suds, but he wasn’t to be drawn. ‘We deal mostly in funds, these days,’ I said. ‘Or funds of funds. I could give you the names of a couple of good managers, if you like.’
But Suds had written me off. ‘Bloody City lot. Always the same. Won’t let the rest of us near the golden eggs, eh?’
An unfortunate metaphor to use, given what happened to the goose, but there we are.
Later, as I was retiring to my (rather fine) room overlooking the herb garden, T accompanied me up that marvellous staircase and said, ‘Bloody Spud, always drinks too much.’
‘I thought his name was Suds,’ I said.
‘Is it? Oh, maybe it is,’ said T, leaving me rather puzzled.
Sarah, her hair flying wild, came scampering across the hall at that moment, pursued by a handsome young rogue with flapping bowtie and scarlet cummerbund. Luckily she didn’t notice us halfway up the stairs, so whatever spark of romantic thrill the moment held for her wasn’t spoilt by her daddy witnessing it. The amorous couple disappeared into what I believe was the billiard room. A number of ball-and-cue-related innuendoes came to mind but I managed to resist voicing them.
‘She’s had a good night, hasn’t she?’ said T.
‘Oh yes,’ said I, loyally. ‘The best.’
‘It makes it all worthwhile, you know.’
‘Yes,’ I said, thinking of my own. It really does.
Monday 5 November 2007
18th
I've been pondering a certain passage in my young friend's recent email with an uneasy heart: "PWM basically consists of babysitting rich, pampered individuals". He doesn't quite say it, but the implication is that we generally dislike, even loathe, our clients.
Is that true? It's been bothering me. Perhaps, in general, it is. Perhaps our dislike is all the stronger because we understand that we depend on them for our bread and butter. Albeit very good quality, handmade ciabatta bread and organic Belgian butter.
All the same, it can't be universally true or it wouldn't bother me.
I've spent the weekend as the guest of a client. He's no one special, not even particularly rich. A light industry entrepreneur who sold out too early and hasn't found anything else to make money in since. Somewhere around the £4m investable assets mark. Ah, you'll say, but he must have a big house as well, and in this market... Actually, no. He doesn't even own a house. So, yes, he's a wealthy man, but as HNWIs go my client T is a pretty small fish.
I consider T a real friend.
He's a curious fellow, though. For the fourteen years that he has been my client, T has had just one enduring ambition: to give his only daughter an 18th birthday to be proud of, in a house to leave her friends speechless. His ambition has never quite been matched by his wealth, yet nine years ago T came up with an ingenious plan.
He discovered that the National Trust is occasionally prepared to rent certain of its properties to individuals of good character. I found this rather surprising, and I imagine you will too. Nevertheless, he applied to rent a particular house in the west country - a fine pile with a magnificent marble staircase - and was granted a twenty-year lease. He and his family sold their four-bedroom rhododendron-infested Barratt home in Surrey and took up their new position as lord-and-family of the manor.
His explanation to me, when I first went to visit him: "Look at that staircase. When Sarah is 18 (she was 9 at the time), all her friends will be here to celebrate her birthday and she's going to come down that staircase in the most beautiful dress money can buy, and everyone is going to be swept away by her."
So you see, it was all about the staircase.
This weekend was Sarah's 18th birthday. I was honoured to be invited - one of the few oldies. But then as I say, T and I are good friends.
It transpired exactly as T had always planned. Sarah is not particularly beautiful (please let T never read this!), but on Saturday night, as she stood sweetly hesitant at the top of that marble flight of stairs, I swear my old heart leapt in concert with all the young bowtied blades around me as we gazed up in respectful adoration of the birthday girl.
She did look so very lovely.
Was that moment worth twenty years' National Trust rent and the prospect of no house at the end of it? Perhaps it was. I find it so difficult to judge the value of things these days. Real things, I mean. All I can say is, it was a very special fragment of my time on this earth.
And it was a hundred times' that for Sarah and her tearfully proud father.
Is that true? It's been bothering me. Perhaps, in general, it is. Perhaps our dislike is all the stronger because we understand that we depend on them for our bread and butter. Albeit very good quality, handmade ciabatta bread and organic Belgian butter.
All the same, it can't be universally true or it wouldn't bother me.
I've spent the weekend as the guest of a client. He's no one special, not even particularly rich. A light industry entrepreneur who sold out too early and hasn't found anything else to make money in since. Somewhere around the £4m investable assets mark. Ah, you'll say, but he must have a big house as well, and in this market... Actually, no. He doesn't even own a house. So, yes, he's a wealthy man, but as HNWIs go my client T is a pretty small fish.
I consider T a real friend.
He's a curious fellow, though. For the fourteen years that he has been my client, T has had just one enduring ambition: to give his only daughter an 18th birthday to be proud of, in a house to leave her friends speechless. His ambition has never quite been matched by his wealth, yet nine years ago T came up with an ingenious plan.
He discovered that the National Trust is occasionally prepared to rent certain of its properties to individuals of good character. I found this rather surprising, and I imagine you will too. Nevertheless, he applied to rent a particular house in the west country - a fine pile with a magnificent marble staircase - and was granted a twenty-year lease. He and his family sold their four-bedroom rhododendron-infested Barratt home in Surrey and took up their new position as lord-and-family of the manor.
His explanation to me, when I first went to visit him: "Look at that staircase. When Sarah is 18 (she was 9 at the time), all her friends will be here to celebrate her birthday and she's going to come down that staircase in the most beautiful dress money can buy, and everyone is going to be swept away by her."
So you see, it was all about the staircase.
This weekend was Sarah's 18th birthday. I was honoured to be invited - one of the few oldies. But then as I say, T and I are good friends.
It transpired exactly as T had always planned. Sarah is not particularly beautiful (please let T never read this!), but on Saturday night, as she stood sweetly hesitant at the top of that marble flight of stairs, I swear my old heart leapt in concert with all the young bowtied blades around me as we gazed up in respectful adoration of the birthday girl.
She did look so very lovely.
Was that moment worth twenty years' National Trust rent and the prospect of no house at the end of it? Perhaps it was. I find it so difficult to judge the value of things these days. Real things, I mean. All I can say is, it was a very special fragment of my time on this earth.
And it was a hundred times' that for Sarah and her tearfully proud father.
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