Living dangerously: Diary of an ABS professional, Week 13
In which Mr ABS discovers what it means to have a pleasant PA and is blanked by former banking colleagues.
The first thing that has struck me on the buy-side is that the PAs are far more helpful than they are in banks.
Sorry if you expected some deeper analysis on the conceptual differences between banks and investment funds or misplaced comments on the physical appearance of the PAs. But then again - if you insist - yes, most of them are pretty hot.
I am not sure whether people in the firm I am now temping for truly appreciate how lucky they are to be looked after with such dedication by their Personal Assistants. Alongside their svelte charms and mastery of Microsoft Word, many of these ladies will oblige by bringing tea and coffee to tables, delivering lunches to order, paying congestion charges and dealing with utility bills, holiday bookings and the like - regardless of anyone's seniority.
After putting in time in an investment bank, I'm not used to such fantastic service. In my former existence, the PAs were liable to make a eunuch out of anyone daring to ask them for anything beyond booking a meeting room or a business trip. After a Croydon facelift, one of their number was known as Steven Seagal - although this may simply have been a highly evolved defence mechanism to facilitate survival in an environment of what were mostly highly aggressive males.
In my new environment, I've so far resisted the PAs' urges to load me up with lattes. Nor will I be going on a holiday this year, so I have no need for them to be book me one.
Although my family and I are more likely to spend this summer paddling in the Thames than the Caribbean, I'm also starting to feel fairly fortunate. My new employers are being flooded with CVs from talented bankers who've been thrown out on the street by their shops and are desperate simply to stay in employment. I have Pammy from Southampton to thank, plus the fact that I had a good relationship with the guys in my new set-up even before that fateful night.
Blanked
Most of the contact I've had with former colleagues from my banking days has been restricted to those who a) moved on to other things before the credit crunch, or b) lost their jobs once the crunch happened. No-one who stayed at the bank has bothered contacting me.
A few weeks ago my wife remarked that it was strange that one of my former colleagues who seemed to be close and only lives two streets away from us had not been in touch; when times were good he even came to our house a few times for supper. Her comment prompted me to send him an email divulging my new Blackberry number. I got a prompt reply, reading "Cool, thanks," and have heard nothing more.
On three separate occasions I've also bumped into other former colleagues on the street. These are people who are still at my old shop and therefore know what happened to me, and yet not one of them was able to offer any condolences. Perhaps they're all so worried that the axe is going to fall on their necks at any moment that they've lost the ability to think beyond their own world and its immediate problems.
I am, however, prepared to accept that the few episodes of Trisha and Jeremy Kyle that I watched during my interlude on the sofa have made me too analytical of other people's behaviour. True to the spirit of my Christmas self-help books, I therefore intend to move on and look on the bright side: I have a Bloomberg screen and a floor full of subservient assistants. Life is looking up.
