Protest picks up speed...

After a quiet start, things seem to be happening down the road from where I sit, 9-5. We just had a leg of the protest wander past our building. Was fascinating to see the reactions of all the guys and girls in my office as the pallid people strolled along two storeys below. "We won't pay for your mess" read one banner, drawing lots of sarcastic remarks about the bankers paying for the benefits of the scroungers. "You sold us shit and said it was gold" read another, which, a few guys joked, was hard to argue with. Now 'comedian' Russell Brand has joined the other crowds outside the Bank, and I have to admit I am weakly impressed that he's actually got off his arse and gone along. For the most part, so far I feel like the protest is a bit pointless because it's not clear what they actually want. At least with things like Live Earth etc., the goals have been clear. This, I suppose, is just an unfocused protest about the current mess - people showing that they're not happy with the status quo. And of course, the very incoherency makes it true to life, since reality isn't organised and clear: it's disorganised and various. Which is all well and good - but Little Miss Practical here can't help feeling that the whole protest would be a lot more likely to have an effect if there were clearly defined goals. I'd like to see some more positive suggestions for the future - how about some banners with possible solutions? "Cut interest rates further", "No more City bonuses", "Tax transatlantic flights at 50%", "Russell Brand should wear less foundation" etc. Surely more helpful? Less fun though. And I'm not sure that anarchy is really about answers, is it. Viva la revolucion...

Anarchy in the UK. Hopefully?

A few weeks ago, I was standing on Park Lane with the knight in muddy armour, waiting for a bus. Suddenly, a police convoy zoomed into view, surrounding a very swanky Bentley. The sirens were blazing and everyone who was assembled at our bus stop turned to look. Suddenly, the knight raised his right hand, made a downward thumb, and loudly shouted 'Boooo!' in the general direction of the vehicles. I giggled. 'Who are you booing at?' I asked. 'Whoever's in that car,' he replied.

I had heard of this general distrust of officials, and could argue it logically, but I hadn't witnessed it in a peer before, and it struck me. Today, there's a general sense of anarchy in London due, of course, to the forthcoming G20 talks. Obama has landed in Air Force 1, his $300,000 Cadillac is here, containing sachets of his own blood should there be an emergency; he has an entourage of 500 including a team of medics and chefs from the White House. Boots in Moorgate will be closed tomorrow, as well as who knows how many other distracting emporia. There are demonstrations aplenty afoot, against the war, against the handling of the financial crisis, against the situation with rights for foreign workers vs. British nationals and against the handling of climate change, among other issues. And here's me, working at a bank, for god's sake, being told to come to work in casual clothes so as not to look like a target. And all I want to do is stick my right hand out, make a downward thumb, and shout 'Boooo!' at myself.

It will all be over before long. But I hope the anarchist in myself won't be latent forever.

City boys gasp

There I was, just wondering how to entertain myself for the next few minutes before lunch, when there was one of those occasional 'WOAH!' noises from the trading floor outside my office. Turns out the Bank of England has just cut interest rates by a whopping 1.5%, down from 4.5% to 3%. Everyone was trying to work out whether they were going to go for 0.5% or 1%, and they simply did not see the 1.5% option coming. I know it affects me brilliantly, in that my monthly mortgage repayments will come down again - but other than that, I doubt it'll have much impact on my life. The boys outside, however, are being about as high fivey as English men get (ie. the occasional wry chuckle). Certainly got the adrenaline going.

In other news: not much. I'm still digesting the Obama election. I tutored last night after work for a bit of extra cash, which is much-needed as my Amex bill seems to be multiplying like a deadly virus. Tonight's activities are staying under the radar for now.... will report back at an unspecified future time. Watch this space. Well - check back in 24 hours. Realistically there's unlikely to be any update before then.

Once in a lifetime

If all these financial pundits are right, today will be talked about in banking circles long after we've all hit the permanent hay. Of course, it's not my area of expertise, but Lehmans going bust was apparently not on the agenda - after the US Federal Reserve bailed out Bear Stearns earlier this year, no one thought they'd let something as big as Lehmans go under. But under it's gone - and the predicted fallout was so big that my boss got in to work at 4am today and couldn't work out how to turn on the lights on our floor. We're illuminated now, though, so I'm guessing he solved the problem.

So it's all go at work for the big guns, with a Wall Street panic bigger than anything anyone's seen in a fair while. For me, it's business as usual; not much I can do about it, other than offer everyone lots of cups of tea and try to make myself useful. Of course, if I was allowed some input, I'd tell everyone to go home and have a nice long sleep. Then when we came back, I'd give a series of lectures about why money is the root of all evil, and cap the maximum earnings of everyone at £200,000 - which I think is about the most anyone could possibly need. I'd give the rest to the government to invest in hospitals and teachers' salaries. Who's with me?

I'm not complaining, but...

I know I'm lucky. Less than a year after I started my job, I'm a home-owner. But this limbo period is driving me slightly nuts. I've owned the flat since 27 December; six weeks later, I'm yet to spend a single night there. The builder is starting on Friday and will take three further weeks - but even then it's not over as I'll still have more painting, carpet laying and physical moving to do. In the meantime, I'm absolutely shattered as my sleep quality has plummeted to the point where all I seem to do is doze lightly for six hours while having bizarre and disturbing dreams, which hardly seems worth the effort. The last holiday I went on was in May and we had something like four sunny days out of fourteen. I had a trip to Lanzarote booked in September but that didn't materialise. And now, thanks to the 'luxury' of home-ownership, I will now never be able to afford a holiday again. OK, I am complaining. Just pigeonhole me next to those people who preface every single remark they make with 'I'm not being funny, but...' and then continue to say something that is so mundane that all living organisms for miles around pass out through passive boredom.

Don't get me wrong, there is much to celebrate in my existence. Ooh blimey, the trading floor is getting shouty, what's going on? [Cranes neck] None the wiser. Will check the Guardian online. Nope, still nothing on the news sites. [Minutes later, Twix in hand] OK, I just asked Joe who kindly explained that some monthly Industry/Manufacturing number has just been released in the States and it's massively massively lower than predicted. All the graphs on his screens looked like cliff edges. Clearly the US is in an even bigger financial mess than expected. Will this impact on Super Tuesday? Or my mortgage repayments? Apparently this number came out an hour earlier than expected because it was going to be leaked - so you're getting this hot off the press. Maybe I'll be made redundant and then I can sneak in a quick holiday before I have to face up to penury.

Black Tuesday?

I’ve been working in a bank for just under a year now. Five days a week, I sit in my little glass box of an office, typing away while listening to the hum of the trading floor outside. Men (and a tiny smattering of women, usually migrant experts in specific foreign markets) sit in front of their six or eight computer screens, watching a selection of graphs move up and (more usually) down throughout the day. On the whole, the trading floor is a lot calmer than the ones you see in the movies; there’s very little swearing and shouting – and when it does happen, it’s more likely to be as a result of a schoolboy prank than a financial crisis. Every now and then, someone will smash their phone handset against the desk in a fit of pique, but most of the time, the boys play nicely.

So it was a shock when, about an hour ago, there was a sudden roar from the eighty or so guys who work in my vicinity. Accompanying the roar were a few leaps up into the air and a comprehensive range of expletives. Most of my body wanted to run out and go, ‘What?! What is it?!’ but I didn’t think that would be in line with my Ice Maiden work persona, so instead I emailed my friend Joe and asked for him to come and tell me what was going on when he had time. Immediately he replied, saying ‘They cut interest rates 75 bps surprise in the US.’ I was pathetically smug to know that basis points are hundredths of a percentage point – and why a 0.75% drop is significant. And what with all the adrenaline and testosterone flying around, I briefly experienced the sensation of working somewhere exciting. It was fun while it lasted – but really, I think my work/life balance is about perfect right now.

Not for long, however. My other exciting news of the day is that I’m getting a Blackberry. It could go one of two ways – either I’ll be permanently on call, working all the hours God sends, never switching off for a moment. Or I’ll realise that I can do my job just as effectively from bed and swiftly lose all remaining motivation to travel to the office. Only time will tell.

Jane and the City

Well, faithful reader, you will be relieved to learn that my integrity has, I believe, remained intact. At around 2.45pm yesterday, with 30 minutes to go before I needed to leave the house for my interview, I donned my Next suit and briefly enjoyed the strange sensation of looking like a grown up. But as I observed myself in the mirror, I felt fraudulent. I am not a wearer of business suits - even when 'teamed' with an unusual shirt that suggests that I may still be in possession of a personality. And moreover, interview for well-paid job or no, I didn't want to give the City gents the idea that I am the type of person to wear business suits. So I changed back into normal clothes and went along.

My pink coat definitely turned heads in the grey office building; things on the trading floor seemed predictably intense and galaxies away from the work environments I've experienced. But maybe that's not such a bad thing. The man I spoke to was nice and... well... we'll see what happens. I'm aware of a degree of vagueness in my account but on the off-chance they read this sort of thing I am trying to keep my nose clean - the need for complete confidentiality was stressed even at the first stage of the interview process. How terrifyingly adult.

Today I have been efficient, baking a cake and taking my cowboy boots to the cobblers (ooh, use of cobblers seems unexpectedly outdated - I'm experiencing a sudden tingling sensation akin to having accidentally said 'wireless' in front of someone I'm trying to impress. Do we not call them cobblers any more? Please advise...). I should probably be applying for further jobs but with two or three opportunities hanging in the balance, it's hard to gather the necessary momentum for interminable form-filling and CV adjusting. And on the off-chance I do find full-time employment in the near future I need to revel in this brief spell of home-making as much as I can. Bree Van De Camp eat your fictional heart out.

Uniform blues

I like to think that I am a diverse sort, familiar with classical and contemporary, fond of ancient and modern, wearer of vintage and new. If someone were to suggest that something unexpected and unusual were to happen to me in the future, I would probably believe them. But despite this conviction in the breadth of my own possibilities, this afternoon I am doing something that I am struggling to accept or admit: I am going for a job interview in the City.

Contradicting everything about which I am passionate, challenging all my long-held confusions and under-developed beliefs, London's business district is as far from my career aspirations as the Rentokill HQ. But, like most of its employees, I am not heading there for a rewarding role in an underfunded charity or kooky publishing house. Rather, I will be on the eastbound District Line headed towards an opportunity to earn larger amounts of money than I've ever been offered in the existence of my curriculum vitae.

The prospective pay packet is appealing, alluring as an opium high - but as I contemplate my single business suit, bought from Next by my mother in 1998 when I was going for my first job as a PR intern, horror washes over me - and not simply due to the glaringly dated cut of the skirt and dust that's gathered on the jacket's shoulders where they've been exposed to the air in my wardrobe. Any career that requires me to wear smart shoes, carry a sensible handbag and quash any outward sign of personality by forcing me into a quasi-uniform sends me into a panic that even sky-high salaries can't assuage. Still, I've got little else to do this afternoon and I figure I may as well go and see what's on offer. Plus at least I can make myself feel good about the fact that I can still fit into a skirt I last wore over a decade ago - although I'm not entirely sure that my porcine 19-year-old frame is something I should really be clamouring to maintain. See you on the other side.