Indiscretions of a Private Banker

Back to Work

2008-03-31T11:29:00.005Z

I've been on holiday. I'm feeling refreshed, renewed and invigorated - and I'm confidently expecting all that good health and happiness to be dissipated within the next 48 hours. The long faces around here would be quite comical if I didn't expect to be joining their ranks imminently.

Events, events. Bear Stearns - what banker didn't shudder with horror and simultaneously twitch with delight at that great hubristic beast's fall? As for the FSA's mea culpa, about time. From a comfortable distance, I must say, the whole mess took on a rather surreal glow. Nothing like being abroad with one's lovely family to render all things financial quite trivial. That is, apart from the correct working of a foreign ATM. Certainly, when my daredevil son fell off a 10ft wall and split his chin open, I can genuinely say that nothing in the world seemed more important than getting him to the nearest hospital. A dozen banks could have collapsed that afternoon and I wouldn't have cared.

Back to work. Oh, joy.

Philanthropy

2008-02-21T18:57:00.003Z

For those who enjoyed or resented my forays against philanthropy last year, a couple of lovely quotes I've recently discovered:

Philanthropist: A rich (and usually bald) old gentleman who has trained himself to grin while his conscience is picking his pocket.
- Ambrose Bierce

Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their distinguishing characteristic.
- Oscar Wilde

Humour aside, I believe there is genuinely some truth in both.

BBC Voices

2008-02-19T18:12:00.002Z

I think I am allergic to Robert Peston's voice. He was a perfectly good financial journalist at the FT, but I just can't bear the drawn-out syllables of his radio and TV appearances as BBC Business Editor.

He has just managed to say "Rock" in a way I would never have believed possible. It's one syllable, for Christ's sake!

Germanation

2008-02-17T22:28:00.004Z

The year just goes on getting more and more exciting. Not only did the private banker's favourite secret - the res non-dom - become part of the Daily Mail's lexicon last week, but now we have a new country in Europe, all the budding flowers in my ecological island have been wiped out by frost, and a British bank is to be run by Alistair Darling. How they have ended up nationalising the Rock after all these months of twittering... But there are plenty of others to commentate on that story this evening. I'm rather more fascinated by what is going on in Germany.

In case you haven't heard, the CEO of Deutsche Post, the exceedingly rich and delightfully named Mr Klaus Zumwinkel, has just resigned after allegations/confessions of tax evasion on a monumental scale. Somehow he has been channelling millions of euros through undeclared trusts in Lichtenstein. Was it all Mr Zumwinkel's own nefarious work, or should we detect the hand of an artful private banker getting creative on his behalf?

If so, said banker has been busy. Apparently, German prosecutors are building cases against 750 other people who have been up to the same Licht-trickery. I'll say that again: seven hundred and fifty people about to get done for the crime of retaining a private banker just a little too good at his job. Wasn't me, I can assure you, and I'm fairly sure no one in this office has been involved. But we will, no doubt, see.

One almost feels sorry for the Germans, what with the "lust trips" at VW (remember the 30,000 euro prostitute bills?) and the bribery and tax evasion scandals elsewhere. It does rather seem that the malaise cuts right to the heart of the establishment (Zumwinkel is a McKinsey man, after all). I have only a handful of German clients - they tend to stick to their own, and send all their money to Switzerland (or is it Lichtenstein?) - but I dare say we shall all be sharing in the economic fallout from this one.

Indomitable

2008-02-11T14:15:00.000Z

Has anyone yet witnessed any serious determination, as opposed to idle threat, in a non-dom client to leave the country rather than pay the Chancellor's new tax? None of mine have expressed anything more than mild irritation. I keep waiting for change of address cards, but so far nothing. No one is yet heading off to Bermuda or Monaco or anywhere else.

Yes, it's a very silly tax which is unlikely to raise much and has the potential to backfire, but I've yet to see evidence for my colleagues' panicky assertions that this will cause disaster in the City. Non-doms who have been in the UK less than 7 years aren't affected - most of our younger, professional non-dom clients are in the clear. And the long-term residents are generally too rich to care. They grumble a little, but none of them seriously wants to give up their home, their children's schooling, their place in society and their shooting weekends for the sake of £30K.

I know I should be joining the Lord Mayor et al in proclaiming that the tax is counter-productive, dangerous to the economy, and ruinous for my clients... but I just don't think it's true.

Retailed into Early Retirement

2008-02-04T16:56:00.000Z

My absolute favourite quote of the year so far: Peter Bennett, the "Deputy City Surveyor" (whatever that is) while proposing a new retail mega-development on Cheapside, said of people crossing the Millenium Bridge to the City, “Instead of turning left to God, they can turn right to Mammon.”

What makes this a particularly delectable quote is the innocent suggestion that there is something new in this. St Paul's may have been there for centuries, but we've never had anything tainted by the reek of money at the other end of Cheapside. Does this deputy not realize what goes on in the City he claims to survey? No, I'm being unfair. It's a lovely soundbite, even without that irony. Good for you, Peter.

That, however, is as far as my enthusiasm goes.

One of the things I've always liked about London is the separation of activities by geography. Entertainment in the West End, shopping in Knightsbridge and Oxford Street, politics in Westminster, art and diplomacy in Mayfair, sex in Soho, dormitories in Fulham, Clapham and the rest. And in the City of London, finance. Well, why ruin it by mixing things up? It's bad enough having to travel to Picadilly to see the private equity lot. Retail in the City? Worse - cheap retail on Cheapside? It's an horrendous idea.

Imagine if the banks suddenly decided to build trading floors on the King's Road, or in Camden Lock, or Covent Garden. The howls of protest that would come from retailers! That's how I will feel seeing Brent Cross materialise beside the Bank of England. Who cares if the City is empty at weekends? This is a holy place for some of us. The last thing we want is cut-price tracksuits and barbie dolls stockpiled within yards of the Stock Market.

Call me a snob - I am, probably, in your terms - but I hate this plan. I cannot for the life of me see the need for MORE mass market retail space in London. All these shopping chains are already duplicated in every corner of the capital. And yes, I will admit, I loathe the idea of new crowds being drawn to the City. The occasional lost tourist is fine; a horde of Stepney and Peckham discount shoppers pouring across the Thames in search of a bargain would drive me to early retirement.

So please, Mr Deputy City Surveyor, take your fine plans south of the river. We like the City the way it is.

Reactions

2008-01-29T13:49:00.000Z

I've been fascinated by the variety of reactions to last week's turbulence. Some of my colleagues have been stiff-lipped throughout, not displaying any sign of concern or relief whatever the news. Others are visibly nervous about their jobs. Only a handful have remembered to express their anxieties in terms of their clients' welfare rather than their own.

And we have managed to lose some of our clients considerable sums, leaping out of equities in the initial panic and then dithering too long before getting back in. The funds of funds have done rather better, and have lessened the blow in most portfolios. But still, every time my PA announces a client on the line requesting a valuation...

At least most of them are expecting the worst. In general they haven't been too shocked by our incompetence, dwarfed as it is by global market forces. And we haven't even had to manage their expectations - the media have done that for us.

The strangest reaction, though, came from one of our youngest equity analysts who claims he knew all about SocGen, as far back as Monday. A contact in the stricken bank itself, apparently. Now why would he claim a thing like that if it wasn't true? Attention-seeking? Not a smart tactic in these times. Delusion? More likely, I'd say. When asked why he said nothing about it he muttered something about no one believing him - which I suppose would be true. All the same... I don't believe him.

Flux

2008-01-24T16:46:00.000Z

I've been resisting writing anything during these tumultuous days. When everything is in flux it's difficult to resist making forecasts of one kind or another, even though one knows that the only reliable prediction is that events are bound to make a mockery of one's soothsayer efforts.

My first reaction to the share tumble at the beginning of the week was to think, 'Oh well, here it is at last. Now we can get on with a good market freefall and then pick ourselves up and nurse our bruises as we have done so many times before. Finally, the uncertainty is over.' But it seems that would have been a premature posting. The market has rallied, undaunted even by the astronomically appalling news from SocGen. So where do we go from here? Up? Down? Really, we are no better off in terms of understanding our fate than we were last year.

It's becoming quite frustrating, this hovering.

As for the SocGen rogue trader, the mind boggles. How could it happen? How is it investors seem so relaxed about this extraordinary development? €5 billion, lost by a low-ranking nobody. This modern world. I really am past understanding it.

Supposedly it can all be sorted out with a rights issue, and if not no doubt the French government will intervene a great deal more swiftly and effectively than our own in the case of Northern Rock. Nevertheless, it is staggering to see another major bank so critically wounded. I'm still getting used to the idea that Merrill Lynch and UBS - to private bankers, the great untouchables of our universe - should be forced by their subprime misfortunes to go cap in hand to the sovereign wealth funds. My ilk have tended in recent years to view the Chinese basically as newly-fattened prey, ripe for hunting - the same way we saw the Arabs for decades. The notion that Arab and East Asian governments now have a controlling hand in ivy league western banks is disconcerting to say the least.

So, no predictions. I for one have no idea what's going on. All I can truthfully say is it is indeed an interesting time to be a banker.

Resolution no. 010108

2008-01-04T16:27:00.000Z

New Year's Resolutions.

I'm in favour, actually, and have even kept a few down the ages. I've made three this year, two of which are still goers. The association with Jan 1 is arguably rather childish, but they're useful arbitrary kicks to one's own backside.

I'm less enthusiastic about being subjected to other people's resolutions. So far this week I have received 23 group emails from colleagues informing me of their 2008 pledges. Someone started it with a trite missive about his new teetotalism (were we being invited to applaud or commiserate?), and this started a rash of follow-up emails, office-wide, documenting the abstentions, enforcements or reinstigations that have been sworn to this week.

Most sensible: "Never again trust the FSA"

Most optimistic: "Achieve double-digit growth for my clients' portfolios"

Most pessimistic: "Hold onto job until birthday (date unspecified)"

Most snide: "Remember to sense check analysis eminating (sic) from the equities team"

Most political: "Make more effort to share information with colleagues and look for opportunities to assist them when they are struggling"

Most bizarre: "Be more red than blue"

Most laughable: "Be kind, selfless, sensitive and soulful" (this is a private banker we're talking about)

And mine? Surely you don't care? I wouldn't.

Since you insist, they concern foie gras, treasury bonds, and being nice to my wife. The first two are yet to be tested.

Sign Off

2007-12-21T15:25:00.000Z

A merry Christmas to all.

I'm off now, and with luck I won't be switching on a computer again until January. That is, assuming I have no urgent client demands from Dubai.

It's been a funny old year. I've enjoyed some of it. More, perhaps, than I would have expected at the beginning. And I've survived a little longer in this twitchy industry. Will there be a melt-down? Probably not, now. So I dare say I shall be at this game a few more years to come.

A few more office Christmas parties, that means. God. This year's was a particularly desperate one. Christmas, in my book, is a time for gentle merry-making with good friends and family - not ritual humiliation in the workplace. The sight of my younger colleagues drumming their bare chests and... But no, time to turn our thoughts to pleasanter things: crackling fires, good food, carols from King's.

Warm wishes to you all.

Last Resort

2007-12-18T17:50:00.000Z

I don't know about you, but I can't help feeling slightly disappointed to see the ECB and Bank of England step in to rescue us all from our own stupidity. Same with the new guarantees for Northern Rock.

Obviously, it's good news for the markets, for clients, for those vanishing bonuses - I wouldn't have it any other way.

But one feels rather as a boy might on a school orienteering trip if, on getting lost, he was quickly recovered by a teacher who had been covertly trailing him against just such an eventuality. Yes, it is lovely to be warm and drinking cocoa again, but it does make one feel very small. Having problems? Here's 170 billion euros to sort it out.

Not very good for our collective backbone, that kind of fairy godmother intercession, is it?

Now lets all cross our fingers and ask Father Christmas to make those billions of cheap pounds and euros count.

Straw Poll

2007-11-28T21:12:00.001Z

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...

2007-11-20T11:07:00.000Z

In case you're wondering, no we didn't get the pond lined with clay in time to capture all this wonderful rain.

Sod's law. Before we're ready for it, la deluge.

The pond would be half full by now, damn it.

The Pond

2007-11-18T15:35:00.000Z

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.

Volatile Times

2007-11-17T11:14:00.000Z

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.

18th - Part 2

2007-11-07T16:47:00.000Z

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.

18th

2007-11-05T17:55:00.000Z

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.

Wise Young Advice

2007-10-24T15:45:00.000Z

Thank you to everyone who has written to me at the hushmail account. I'm glad people are still reading with enjoyment.

I particularly liked this email, quoted here with the permission of the sender:

I just wanted to say "thank you" for writing your blog. I only discovered it recently but have been reading voraciously ever since. I like the way you write: it's a charming mix of wittiness, honesty, pith, and is at times very insightful.

Reading your blog has been quite an edifying experience for me, in a way. I'm at that age when you're supposed to go do an internship at a bank (quite a weight of expectation from friends and family) and I always assumed that I wouldn't actually mind this sort of career. I'd done those Easter mini internships at several of the big banks and consultancies and everything seemed rosy enough - I rather fancied giving PWM a go.

Reading your blog, however, it would seem to me that a career in PWM basically consists of babysitting rich, pampered individuals and attending to their every need. Furthermore, and I hope you don't mind me saying this, it seems that to be successful in this area, you not only need to be a rampant sychophant (at least outwardly) but that you are effectively a parasite, feeding off someone else's wealth, which is something that doesn't appeal to me.

I'm only 21 and have no real life experience on which to draw so I apologise for the naivity inherent in what I'm about to say, however, I can at least claim to be looking at the situation completely objectively - not having met you and not standing to benefit/lose from whatever you choose to do. I think you should quit your job.

My father was until recently Finance Director at ***- a well-paid, prestigious job. He hated it. He ended up having a nervous breakdown and - although he didn't feel he could afford to - he retired early. It was easily the best decision he's ever made. He's a lot happier now and in fact he's back working, doing something related, but you wouldn't believe the difference it's made to him, his health, and the enthusiasm with which he now goes through life.

Reading your posts, what immediately jumps out is how much you enjoy being with your family and kids. You seem like a very reasonable chap, who has got his priorities right. Money certainly isn't everything and I'm sure you could find something else to keep bread on the table. I hate using such a cliched expression but life is short - why waste time doing something you clearly don't enjoy when you have other options available to you?

Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks again - please do continue writing - and best of luck in the future.

I will feel a little guilty if my young correspondent strikes private banking off his list of possible careers because of this blog - but only a little. Besides, two other young men have written to me to say I have inspired them to take up private banking, so I suppose there is some kind of grand cosmic balance at work.

Needless to say, I will think about quitting, as I do most days, but I expect I shall come to the usual gutless conclusion. Spots are jolly hard to change at my age.

Nevertheless, I appreciate the concern.

James the Hunter -- part two

2007-10-19T16:40:00.000Z

My short time with James is over. I have given him the rest of the afternoon off.

To celebrate.

Somehow (and I'm not at all sure what strange Harrovian voodoo he employed), James has overnight acquired three clients of the first order. Two are investment bankers, young but already collecting exorbitant bonuses. The third is some kind of Lebanese social aristocrat with a passion for speedboat racing and polo, both of which it seems he can afford with enviable ease.

James has been coy about exactly what transpired in exactly which club last night. He has already acquired the private banker's taste for pantomime exaggerations of secrecy where his clients are concerned. "His clients"! I still can't get used to the idea. But it is true. He has contacted all three this morning, and after a certain amount of embarrassed but conspiratorial laughter about various (unrevealed) shared recollections he has ended up with faxed letters of agreement from all three.

I've actually found myself playing the role of his secretary for part of the morning. It has taken all my willpower not to ask exactly what form of words he used to ensnare his gold-plated prey. Undoubtedly they were clumsy and ingenuous: not words an older, established banker could make use of in his own hunting. But still - I am dying to know.

Perhaps it is just beginner's luck. Most probably it is. But who can say James isn't a demonically gifted hunter? Who can say he won't sustain it through a magnificent private banking career? I wish him all the luck in living up to his tremendous start.

And the best thing is he's extraordinarily grateful to me for suggesting last night's plan of action. He hasn't an inkling I meant it as a rather cruel joke.

A useful ally for my dotage, let's hope!

James the Hunter

2007-10-18T18:52:00.000Z

James has turned out to be more ambitious than I realised.

He has found a hundred different ways of asking me how to find new clients. How to be a hunter. I have, in my own small way, something of a hunter's reputation within the bank and James is keen to learn. He has already confessed, charmingly and blushingly, a certain scorn for the farmers amongst my colleagues. Ironic, given his choice of tertiary education, but when I alluded to this James rather determinedly missed the point. He does not want to be known as a farmer. He wants to go out and hunt. End of story.

I think I have already been a disappointment to him. He probably imagined I would be spending our days together leafing through Debrett's, or the Rich List, or perhaps the Monaco phone directory, and then pouncing with debonair telephonic eloquence on unsuspecting heiresses. Instead he has had to assist with an impossibly tedious client satisfaction survey (tedious to the clients that is; mortifying to me) and listen to endless phone calls I've needed to make to track down a payment that had gone astray.

This afternoon, he said, "I suppose, in your day one could just, like, go and have lunch with people, but there are so many private bankers now. No one with any serious wealth will even take my call once they find out I've only just started. I wouldn't take my call. I honestly can see myself actually with no clients, even in, like, a year's time."

Mildly irritated by the "in your day", I told him to stop moaning and go out and hunt if that's what he really wanted to do. "Go to Pangaea or Boujis, or wherever it is Prince Harry hangs out these days, and start signing up clients. Now. Tonight. Go right away."

It was a bit of a cruel thing to do. He went all bright-eyed and inspired on me. I nearly told him to forget it, but then I decided he probably needed a good night out, even if it does end in humiliation and banishment from a couple of fashionable nightspots. So off went little James to play with the Princes, his pinstripe suit laden with business cards. I can't help thinking of one of those fairy story children who goes off to fight giants armed only with a wooden spoon.

I shall start to feel guilty only if he doesn't turn up to work in the morning.

Shadow

2007-10-16T16:33:00.000Z

I am to be shadowed all week by a new boy. He is perfectly pleasant, if rather too chubby to be any credible shadow of mine. He doesn't quite roll over the arms of his chair, but he definitely gives the lift mechanism pause for thought whenever he chooses to activate it -- which he does, perhaps out of nerves, rather too regularly.

James (that is his real name, but then there are plenty of Jameses in private banking) is undoubtedly going to be successful in his chosen career. He has everything going for him. His mother is in some vague way aristocratic. His father has money. He himself was educated at Harrow -- something which he may be called upon to conceal, but only infrequently -- and then at Cirencester, where he didn't quite complete some kind of farming diploma. He is difficult to draw on the subject, and I suspect he may have harmlessly misled our recruitment team at some stage in the last few months. No matter. As I said, he is perfect for this job. He has the look of a man intelligent enough to add up but not so smart he might skim off your portfolio. His eyes are bright blue, his lips girlishly full, his voice a hesitant and friendly drawl.

He's going to be a nuisance to me, but less so than most of his City-bound peer group would be. There is no piercing intellect or naked ambition to trouble me in gentle James.

Friday Chatter

2007-10-12T15:25:00.000Z

Overheard in the office kitchenette -

Back Office Girl 1: "Have you ever been to a strip club?"

Back Office Girl 2: "God, no. Have you?"

BOG 1: "Promise you won't tell anyone? Can you believe it, I had a private dance!"

BOG 2: "When? When??"

BOG 1: "Last night. Danny had a bunch of mates in town and I..." (breaks off abruptly as presence of your unworldly reporter noted)

AC: "Hello."

BOGs: "Hello..."

(AC leaves with cup of tea)

BOG 1: "Oh my God, how embarrassing....!"

M's Prospective Girlfriend

2007-09-27T23:12:00.000Z

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.

2007-09-22T07:48:00.000Z

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

2007-09-21T09:15:00.000Z

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.