Bye-Bye Banking
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To pay my last respects to the eight years of my life dedicated to the altar of investment banking, I ventured one last time to my old office.
Strictly speaking that's not entirely a true statement - I dragged my heels grumbling and muttering grievances to deliver my signed severance contract because I was too tight-fisted to pay for a courier. After all, as Sir Alan has been highlighting on a regular basis to those unfamiliar (and his wannabe apprentices), these are testing times.
Furtively I scan the vista for any recognisable faces. Tucked away discretely, like a firearm, I have my well-rehearsed response to any awkward sympathetic offerings that may arise, ready to be whipped out, aimed and fired. It has not escaped me the way redundancy casualties are treated like victims of a taboo disease of questionable origin - with a certain uncomfortable demeanour and stilted conversation skirting incessantly around the actual ailment but without any direct reference to it. As luck would have it, altercations aren't on the day's agenda.
I am officially no longer an employee of the bank. Or indeed, of anything or anyone. Dare I say it; I am now officially unemployed. Not since the two months immediately following graduation from university can I claim the status of idle thumb twiddler, set to contribute a big fat doughnut to the nation's tax revenue.
Instead of running from the building shouting "Free at last! Free at last!" it is a decidedly low-key, muted affair (think Camilla and Charles' wedding). Stepping beyond the doors for the final time, my one-year-old waves a farewell with more feeling than I can muster. Is it relief? Nostalgia? Sadness at the end of an era? The rush of memories - of steps I trod thousands of times, in heels, flats, boots and sandals, season after season, year after year. The ghost of me lingers here like a small part my soul that I can't reclaim.
Today is the day I redeemed my soul - but is a soul any more soulful employed in idle musings than soulless in an industry of alleged moral compromise? And what next, now that I am no longer tethered to bureaucracy? I hear Sir Alan is on the hunt for his next apprentice...
Furtively I scan the vista for any recognisable faces. Tucked away discretely, like a firearm, I have my well-rehearsed response to any awkward sympathetic offerings that may arise, ready to be whipped out, aimed and fired. It has not escaped me the way redundancy casualties are treated like victims of a taboo disease of questionable origin - with a certain uncomfortable demeanour and stilted conversation skirting incessantly around the actual ailment but without any direct reference to it. As luck would have it, altercations aren't on the day's agenda.
I am officially no longer an employee of the bank. Or indeed, of anything or anyone. Dare I say it; I am now officially unemployed. Not since the two months immediately following graduation from university can I claim the status of idle thumb twiddler, set to contribute a big fat doughnut to the nation's tax revenue.
Instead of running from the building shouting "Free at last! Free at last!" it is a decidedly low-key, muted affair (think Camilla and Charles' wedding). Stepping beyond the doors for the final time, my one-year-old waves a farewell with more feeling than I can muster. Is it relief? Nostalgia? Sadness at the end of an era? The rush of memories - of steps I trod thousands of times, in heels, flats, boots and sandals, season after season, year after year. The ghost of me lingers here like a small part my soul that I can't reclaim.
Today is the day I redeemed my soul - but is a soul any more soulful employed in idle musings than soulless in an industry of alleged moral compromise? And what next, now that I am no longer tethered to bureaucracy? I hear Sir Alan is on the hunt for his next apprentice...
Here Is The Writer : Mrs A
Mrs A is a soon to be ex-banker, currently on baby leave. She endured eight years in the City as a stockbroker before a timely exit to deal with matters of a maternal nature. Just as she began debating the merits of 'to return or not to return', the R word laid to rest that dilemma. Now she revels in the relative safety of being able to watch the credit crunch from the removed perspective of a civilian, while continuing to harbour her closet handbag habit. Click here to read more on her blog.
