An established socialite with far too much time on her hands
I sulked down to Starbucks and slumped into the soft brown sofa.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Lacey passed over the coffee she’d purchased earlier for me. In true Lacey style, rather than my real name being written on my coffee she’d instructed them to write, Tits for Brains. Hers read Horny Toad.
“Nothing. Just pissed off with the world.” I picked up my coffee and took a gulp. “I’m trying my damned hardest to be a good girl and I’m failing miserably. He bought me the shoes.”
“Okay darling. Firstly, what the hell are you talking about and secondly, you’re the one who taught me how to use men. Please don’t tell me you’ve developed some sort of conscience.” She traced her finger over the letters on her coffee cup. “Horny Toad. Ha! Want to swap?”
“No. Grow up! Sorry.” I sighed, “I though you would have heard along the grape vine by now. I’m turning a new leaf. I’m not playing the game anymore but he asked what shoes and he then bought them for me. It was too easy and I couldn’t help myself. Now I just feel like shit for using him.”
She began to laugh. “Yeah right! You? You’re not happy unless you have men chasing after you and obeying your every whim and demand.”
“Well that’s just the thing. I can’t seem to turn that side of me off.” I was struggling to word what I wanted to say. “I mean, I love men and dating and going out and flirting…
She cut me off, “And getting presents and being the centre of attention and having men fall at your feet. Cut the crap Elle. You’ll never change. You wrote the rule book on how to get what you want, get it to a high standard and in a timely manner. When was the last time you paid for your own drink? For fucks sake, even I bought you the coffee you’re currently drinking!”
I didn’t agree to meet her so I could be lectured and remind just how manipulative and calculating I can be. I’m fully aware of my personality flaws. It stems from my childhood. They didn’t call me Princess for nothing. I used to click my fingers and my demands would be met. There were a lot of family issues going on when I was little and the adults thought the best way to shelter me from all the rubbish was to spoil me. At the time the world or rather just my family’s world really did revolve around me.
“Elle, you are who you are and frankly I wouldn’t have you any other way.” A very attractive man walked past and Lacey shot him a smile. “I bet you £20 you can get him to buy us another coffee.”
“Challenge not accepted! I’m trying to change. Men are not toys and meal tickets!” The man turned around and smiled at us from the counter.
“Are you sure? He’s alone.” Lacey is the devil in disguise.
“No. I’m not playing your silly game. If you want another coffee I’ll buy you one. I owe you one anyway.”
“Fine! Be like that! But for the record, this new and improved Elle sucks proverbial cock.”
I walked up to the counter and stood behind the fellow who had shot us the smile. He was a looker alright but I wasn’t in the mood for flirting so when he said hello, I was very quick to say hi and then dismiss him like he wasn’t even there.
“Are you two girls alone?” He tried to make conversation.
“Yeah we are.” Oh please bugger off. Lacey sat at our table with ears pricked listening to our every word.
“May I Join you?” Really? I looked over to Lacey and she gave me a pleading look.
“If you want too. We’re not much company though. We’re bitching about men.” Take the hint dude.
“No worries. I know lots about men. I am a man.” Wow, the intelligence in this one is strong! “May I buy you girls a coffee?”
Oh fuck it, why not. “That would be lovely. Two latte’s please.” I looked over to Lacey who was beaming from ear to ear. How the hell did this happen?
“What are your names?”
“Excuse me?”
“For the cups?”
“Oh, err… Elle and…”
Suddenly Lacey stood up, held up our empty cups and proclaimed for the whole of Starbucks to hear, “She’s Tits for Brains and I’m Horny toad! Can I have peppermint in mine please? ”
The guy looked at me. I looked at him. He raised an eyebrow. I flashed my dimples.
If you can’t beat them, join them, “I’ll take a shot of vanilla in mine too please.”
At what point should a couple move in together? How do you decide when the right moment is to merge your two separate piles of crap into one massive pile, store it under a roof, and then call it a home? It’s a huge step in any couples lives together, so how do you know when the time is right and how do you insure you’re making the right decision?
Recently a very good friend of mine was told that she needs to vacate her flat as the landlord wants to sell. The first thing that came to my mind was that she could come and live with me. We could be faux lesbian life partners, get some cats and watch Sex And the City reruns until our eyes bleed. While my idea by far sounded more entertaining than hers, she threw it out the window and dismissed it completely. She wants to move in with her boyfriend. I know, madness isn’t it! Why would anyone want to live with their boyfriend over a pisshead like me? My wine rack is so full that I’ve had to start storing the overflow under the sink.
But I guess I see her point. She’s been with the guy for over 12 months now and while they’ve had their ups and downs, she’s inlove with him. Putting my not so cosy feelings for him aside, I told her that if she really does love him, and my over excessive amount of wine wasn’t good enough for her, then she should definitely have the chat with her boyfriend. We hugged it out and she agreed that a talk was needed. She’s at that stage where she knows she’s ready to take the leap of faith.
Last night they met up for dinner. I thought the phone call I was going to get this morning was going to one of jubilation and setting a date for a trip to John Lewis to buy cushions and toilet brushes, but instead I was greeted by tears. It turns out that her selfish boyfriend (once again I’m right in my believes that’s he’s a total and absolute knob head) would rather her find a new place on her own than ask her to move in with him. Considering he has a three bedroom house all to himself, I don’t get it.
This is a man who struggles to express his emotions. He’s never told my friend he loves her, he won’t get jealous if other men flirt with her, he’s happy to only see her on weekends but yet ( and here’s the kicker,) he’s asked her to move to the other side of the world with him. He’s applying for jobs all over the globe and has asked if she’ll pack up her life and go with him. He’s prepared to drag her to the other side of the world but yet he won’t share his house here in London first. Surely it would make more sense for them to live together here first for at least a few months before they pick up sticks and bugger off?
So when is it the right time for a couple to move in together? Clearly it has to be a joint decision but when you throw life’s obstacles into the mix, it really blurs the lines. In my friend’s mind, it makes perfect sense that now would be the right time for them to move in together. All the signs are there. They’ve been together over 12 months, her lease is coming to an end, they’re talking about moving abroad etc. But yet in his mind, moving in together is not an option. What’s his problem exactly?
I don’t have the answers. I once moved in with a boyfriend. I left him 18 months later. I packed up and left him with the flat, the cat, the pots and pans… but I took the TV. I’m hardly the best person to ask for advice on the subject. But I will tell you something for nothing, I won’t be moving in with a boyfriend and/or lesbian life partner in any sort of hurry or rush. Combining your lives is something that both people really need to think long and hard about. Moving in together should not be out of convenience or cost cutting. It should be out of love and taking the first steps of cementing a life together. If one of you has reservations then the time isn’t right.
If you eat raw chicken, it’ll either kill you or at least make you very sick. You shouldn’t force something that isn’t quite ready yet just because you’re excited about it. So if a new flat/house/castle/cardboard box is a chicken, all I’m saying is just make sure that the chicken is well and truly stuffed and baked before you put it in your gob and dedicate yourself to it. And when it comes to my friend and her desires, no doubt she’ll talk him around and beat him into submission. But when she’s in hospital with food poisoning (no really, this isn’t a metaphor… he can’t cook) I’ll bite my lip and go visit her with flowers. Fucking chicken.
I have two loves in my life. Louboutins and Batiste Dry Shampoo. It doesn’t matter what life throws at me, as long as I have a pair of red sole-mates strapped to my feet and a can of lifesaver in my handbag, I really am as happy as a pig in mud. If I was to give one piece of advice to women everywhere, it would be to live life to the fullest and always make sure you have hair and shoes to match.
Last night I was lucky enough to be invited to the launch of Batiste’s new Product, Batiste Lace.
The party was an absolute hoot! Imagine a girly sleepover but with champagne, professional makeovers and then a photo shoot to show off our brand new looks. One lucky girl even walked away with an Ipad!
We were treated to top stylists from Brooks and Brooks , who curled, twisted and knotted our hair into beautiful styles. It was fantastic to sit down with a professional and be talked through what styles work for me and how I can get the most out of my hair with minimal effort. With hair done, it was manicure time. I’ll admit that I don’t often get to the salon to get my nails done. It was so relaxing to just sit down and let someone else take care of me for once. With bright red nails to match my fiery demur, I was off to make up to finish the job. Once again, rather than just someone slapping makeup on me, it was more of a one on one chat and consultation. The team from Beauty UK Cosmetics talked us individually through colours, textures and primers. My consultant was amazing. She let me in on some trade secrets, like what colours I should wear to make my eyes pop and how to line my lips to make them look full, fun and kissable. *Kiss Kiss*
With the transformation complete, I was ready for my close up! My friend and I posed, smiled, jumped, and pouted as our professional photos were taken. Because what’s a makeover without gorgeous photos to show for it?
But while this was all amazing fun, I can’t forget the reason behind why were all invited in the first place… BATISTE HAS A NEW RANGE!!!! Welcome to the stands; Lace! Lace, much like all their other products, brings dull, greasy and drab hair back to life. What I really love about Lace, is that is has a very neutral scent. I’ll admit that when it comes to my hair, I don’t settle for anything less than perfection, so going without Batiste before a night out is just not an option for me. Batiste is one of my everyday products and I’m always conscience to not go too heavy with it as I don’t want the smell of my hair to overpower my perfume. Lace doesn’t do this at all. It compliments the female scent perfectly.
I was playing around with a can this morning before I left for work. The stylist at the party had told me that Batiste is not just a dry shampoo but also a nifty and sneaky way of adding volume to my hair. I’ve never really thought about using it as a volumiser before as I have quick thick hair naturally. But heck, there is no harm in trying right? I threw my head upside down and let my hair fall over my head. Without A) a clue what I was doing and B) not being able to see a thing, I sprayed Lace on the roots of my hair. I then used my fingertips and massaged it in. flicking my hair back over, I looked in the mirror. My hair actually looked alive and not like I’d just been in bed for 5 hours. The stylist from Brooks and Brooks was right! Anyone really can turn dull, straight hair into a masterpiece within minutes. I didn’t know I had it in me! I’ve been using Batiste for years and I’d never tried this. They say you learn something new everyday. The sun was barely up and my lesson was learnt!
So today I sit at work with full, bouncy and lively hair, and beautiful shoes on my feet. And all this while nursing the world’s worst hangover! (Don’t try and tell me that if you got a makeover, you wouldn’t go out afterwards!?) I was asked last night to describe Batiste in one word. I told them ‘Godsend.’ In hindsight, I’d like to change my answer. I think the word ‘Miraculous’ is far more fitting and regal for a product that I truly love and stand by.
“Have you? Would you?” The two boys were bent over in laughter at the conversation that was transpiring.
Being the only girl in the pack can certainly have its pit falls, and when the talk turns to sex, I’m always the first to get picked on, grilled and all round embarrassed.
“Looks, she’s going red. You have done it!”
“This is for me to know and for you never to find out. Anyway, my glass is empty. Unless you want me to leave, I suggest one of you tops me up.” I tried to change the conversation. But it was in vein.
“Oh come on Elle. You have to share. I told everyone about my experience with anal.” I tried not to smirk when he said the word.
“How is my sex life any of your business? Are you not getting any yourself?” Again, I tried to move the conversation away from me.
“I’m married. Of course I’m not getting any!” We all burst out into laughter. Poor sod.
I love the guys who I hang out with but sometimes I wonder if they forget that I am a girl. I’ve picked up quite a lot of their bad habits and fit so easily in the group. They call me their little sister and I call them my big brothers. When we’re out, we really do resemble a pride of drunken lions and I’m their little lion cub. They watch me fight my own battles, go on the hunt but when push comes to shove, they’ll always be there to step in when required. But when it comes to banter within the group, I’m always first to get picked on. They call it character building. Most outsiders looking in would call it bullying.
“So come on, spill the beans.” One of the boys sat on the stool next to me and topped up my glass. “Where not going to leave you alone until you tell us.”
“I’m not telling you anything. Go get your own sex lives!” I smiled at him, “Honestly, anyone would think you have no lives of your own.”
“Sweetheart we don’t.” The other boy took the stool on the other side of me. “We live through you.” He put one arm around my shoulder and with his other arm he swept it across the air like he was looking out over the horizon, rather than behind a bar and at an array of liquor bottles, “Where ever you go and whatever you do, we will follow.” In all fairness, pointing at liquor bottles was probably more appropriate anyway.
The clown on the other side of me put in his two cents, “And if we can’t follow, we’ll pester you until you give us the details.” I giggled. These boys were far too drunk for their own good.
I clearly had to give them something to get them off my back. “You two are relentless! All I wanted was a quiet drink and instead you seem to want me to top up your wank-banks with perverse stories.”
“But only if you’re the main character though. We don’t want some cock and bull story about a friend.” He squished his face up at the thought.
“You guys are disgusting. Hilarious but disgusting.” I jumped off my stool and headed to the bathroom. They could sit and stew for all I cared.
I wasn’t going to give them anything that they could later use against me. With these guys, The Miranda Rights are my mantra. I have the right to remain silent, anything I do say, can and will be used against me in a court held at the pub. Weighing up my options, I figured silence was the best option.
Now while this sounds like I’m complaining about my big brothers, I’m really not. These are the boys that ratted out a guy who I was seeing… they literally stalked him down the road to witness him meet another girl. They’ve wiped my tears over another idiot who used me and treated me like shit, they’ve given me career advice, held my hand while I was ill, they’ve had men thrown out of bars for being too fresh/ violent or forward with me and they even once sent me flowers to just to make me smile for the sake of it. These guys have my back and even with all their misgivings and terrible banter, I love them. I love each and every single one of them and I wouldn’t trade them in for the world. Without my big brothers looking out for me, god only knows where I’d be.
“What are you going to do? Please don’t let him back in again. Remember what happened last time?” Rachel put down her wine glass and looked me in the eye, “Peaches is no good for you and you know it.”
I played with the base of my glass and looked away. “It would be rude not too accept his invitation.”
“Justify it how you want. We both know you’ll do whatever the hell you like even if it’s not the best thing for you. It’s how you play the game but don’t come crying back to me when Peaches does another disappearing act. You don’t half make your life complicated!” She shook her head and I stared at my feet. She’s right. Why am I even considering meetingup with him… again!
Peaches. Oh golly gosh, Peaches. Readers of my old blog will know the story well. Peaches is the man who has been on the scene for 3 years now. He was my rebound after my first break up. We met up a few times and then he went cold. I wasn’t too fussed as I was also seeing his colleague, Cream, at the same time. Since then Peaches and I have run into each other a few times and we always end up in bed together. It’s just what happens. We’re useless. One night I was out with my colleagues but ended up somehow in a cab back to his. It was a blatant booty call but neither of us really minded. But in October 2010, it all came to a very heart churning end. We’d met up and ended up sitting on his couch drinking deer and listening to music. We talked for hours rather than just ripping at each others clothes. We talked about family, friends and laughed at how we’d met and how things had evolved into this sort of messed up friendship/fuck buddy situation. He then dropped the bombshell, he was being sent abroad for work for 6 months. It’s funny how you don’t realise what you have until someone takes it away. The next morning we went our separate ways. We still sent the odd message but it was clear we shouldn’t meet up when he got back.
Fast-forward to March 2011 and Peaches was back in London. On a random night out I got a message from him. My heart sank. How could he do this to me? Why was he tormenting me? I replied but kept it very polite and neutral. I don’t think he quite realises the power he holds over me.
Fast-forward to September 2011 and once again, he reared his face and made his presence known. At this point I was in a relationship. I was in a good place (or so I thought.) I did the right thing and ignored him. I’m not into screwing people over who I care about.
Fast-forward to November 2011 and I ran into him at a bar. We both tried to ignore each other but how many awkward moments of eye contact can you let pass before you have to acknowledge someone’s existence.
“Miss. Grace. Are you ignoring me?” His voice was exactly as I remembered it.
“I’m not ignoring you. I’m just questioning if we should be seen talking together. People might get the wrong idea.” I was generally worried that one of my colleagues would get the wrong impression and go running back to my then boyfriend. They’re hardly men of discretion and love a bit of drama.
“No, you are ignoring me. How many messages have I sent you over the last year? I know you have a boyfriend. I’m not about to stir trouble but what’s the harm in joining me for a drink, seeing as we’re both here, and catching up? We can be friends right?” He pulled up a bar stool next to his and cautiously I sat down. “So, how’s things princess? Everyone still calls you that right?”
I gulped hard.
We chatted for about 20 minutes and then I made my excuses and left. He sent me a message later that night on Facebook. He told me that it was good to see me and we should go for a coffee some time. I ignored it and deleted it.
So now it’s April 2012. And I’m single. It’s exactly 3 years since we first met. Men have come and gone and yet he remains. There are casual messages going back and forth and while all my friends are warning me against him, I can’t help but want to see him again. I know I’ll never have 2010 back when it was all just a bit of fun and we both knew where each other stood but is there any harm in dinner and having a proper catch up? In November, I barely said a word as I felt as guilty as hell just being in the same room as him, let alone, letting him buy me a drink. When it coems to Peaches, my guard is up and rightfully so. We got far too close before he went away and I’ve vowed that I won’t let a man get to me like that again.
I guess I need to take a step back and evaluate things. This is Peaches. Not just some random guy. This is a man who I’ve screamed at, cried on and rubbed his back while he threw up in his toilet. We know each other inside out and back to front. We stalk each other on Facebook and ask mutual friends how the other is doing. He was man enough to take a backseat while I was dating someone else and watched from a distance without any sort of intentional interference. If he has enough respect to leave me be and get on with life, then maybe I should show him enough respect to accept his offer to dinner.
AHHHH… HELP!
“So you’re single again. To be honest, you’re more fun single. Hey, remember that time when you broke into…” I cut him off. I love my friends but I don’t need reminding of what I got up too 18 months ago. Breaking into a building with a guy and having a fire extinguisher fight up and down the stairwells, I’ll admit it is a once in a lifetime opportunity but I’ve had that opportunity. I don’t want to repeat it or relive it. Not this week anyway.
“I remember quite well thank you. In fact, seeing as I was there and you weren’t, my recollection is probably better than yours!” I tried to feign a smile.
“Ah Elle, it’s good to have you back,” He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and gave me an affectionate squeeze. “The dark side has missed you.”
If being single in the square mile is the dark side, I’m about to shine some much needed light on it.
I guess I’m just over the banker scene. Don’t get me wrong, I love my boys and I love going out with them but as for the single men who seem to infiltrate the bars, following their noses and the scent of perfume infused pheromones, on the hunt for designer dressed meat… they’re horrid. They’re just all wrong and yucky! They have peas for brains and more money than sense. I guess for some girls those are the ingredients for a perfectly well balanced man but not for me. Call me old fashioned or heaven forbid, grown up, I just don’t see the value in a man who wants you for the night and will have forgotten your name by the time he’s poured you your third glass of champagne. It’s pathetic and I know it’s pathetic because I used to be the kind of girl who lapped it up. And as much as they didn’t care about me, I didn’t much care about the man doing the pouring, just as long as there was one.
That’s pretty much the City dating scene wrapped up in a nut shell. It’s a meat market full of pompous pricks and dolly birds. Take yourself out of that equation and all you’re left with is married men, women who’ve been left on the shelf and a handful of us cognisant girls in the corner banging on about self respect. Can you blame me for wanting to look else where? Why put up with this just because I work here? Just because I work in an investment bank doesn’t mean I’m a banker-wanker.
It’s a tough one. I’ve been told that I shouldn’t mix with the have-nots. I should stick to my own kind and not lower my standards. By that definition, he implied that I’m a ‘have.’ I don’t think I like that. Sure I have a bit of security behind me and nice stuff but does that honestly make me a ‘have?’ Why can’t I date someone who earns less than me? Why do I have to stick to men who earn an equal or higher amount? That’s just ridiculous and not to mention boring. Why would I want to date a banker who works long hours every day and has no time for me? How can you be with someone who’s never there? That would make me extremely shallow and blatantly just after his money. I want to date the man, not his wallet. I have my own wallet thank you very much!
It’s an interesting one and I think with time I’ll find the right balance. As long as the man respects me, encourages me, is able to listen and isn’t scared of hard work and ambition, then I think he’s the perfect blend. The rest just doesn’t matter. I guess I know in my heart of hearts that I will most probably end up with a man who works within Finance but until then, it’s fun to see what else is out there and I’m not going to pigeon hole myself just because the laws of probability say I should. There are far too many interesting men with interesting stories and interesting backgrounds to explore first. Why roll with someone the same when I could bounce off someone different?
Oh well, I’m in no hurry. I guess time will tell where I end up and who I’ll end up with. So in the interim, I’m going to ride the wave and enjoy every moment of it because at the end of the day, time is something that I have plenty of.
Men. They used to be something rather disposable to me. You pick him up, you knock him out and then save his number as Do Not Answer. End of. It was a very mechanical process and I won’t lie, I thoroughly enjoyed it. I loved the thrill of seeing a text come through from ‘Do Not Answer,’ or the 10pm booty calls that I took so much pleasure in ignoring. But now, all of that just seems so lame and well, for lack of other words, pathetic.
I’m a single girl again after what has been effectively 12 months of exclusive dating. Exclusive to two separate men for the first two months but then culled it down to one. Surprisingly, while my eyes did wander and a couple of ‘what ifs’ did cross my mind, I managed to stick with the guy who I was dating. Mum would be proud, if she was talking to me that is.
So after so much seriousness, I’m suddenly allowed out in the wild again and I’m allowed to do it completely guilt free. I can talk to men without worrying if I’m flirting, I can let men buy me drinks without panicking that I’m leading him on and I can even give a guy my number with absolutely no backlash what so ever. I guess you could say I’m finding my feet again. But just like a toddler learning to walk, I’m stumbling all over the place and falling over left, right and centre.
My phone flash and it was a text message. The only people sending me messages these days are friends, colleagues and beauty salons reminding me of my appointments. I scratch my head and read the text, ‘Lovely to meet you the other night. Did you have a good night in the end? Ernie. x ’
“Ernie? Who the fuck is Ernie?” It’s not something you say out loud to yourself very often while walking home from work.
What night? Who are you? Then my eyes widened and I slammed my hand to my mouth. Ernie of course! How could I forget, Ernie the Engineer! What a total loser! He was so much of a loser that I had completely forgotten about him within hours of meeting him. I quickly saved his number as Do Not Answer and deleted the message. What the hell was I thinking giving him my number!?!?
See that’s the problem when you’re freshly single, drunk and reek of a fresh bout of low self confidence – the losers see you as a prime target. Get her while she’s low and maybe, just maybe she’ll make you high. Good luck playing that game with me dickheads. I might be the right girl/target but you don’t know the first thing about me. If you’re an idiot who picks up girls hoping to be the provider of the hug she needs, you’re wasting your time on me. Because whether I’m down and out or up and about, I don’t dabble in losers, assholes, uglies, smellies or just all round weirdos.
Once Ernie’s messaged popped up on my phone, the other evening all came back to me like a lightning bolt. He’s a civil engineer and he builds bridges. That wasn’t the problem though, the problem was that he was blatantly honing in on the girl surrounded by men who kept telling her to smile.
He was trying all the lines; ‘Why aren’t you smiling.’ ‘Where’s your boyfriend tonight.’ ‘You have such pretty eyes.’ Really? Do I look like I was born yesterday? I sat there and lapped up the attention for a short while but I came to the conclusion within two minutes that he didn’t stand a chance, not even a slither. Not even enough to show him common curtsey and be polite to him. Instead I raised my eyebrows, looked aimlessly around the dance floor and then laughed in his face. I gave him my number to get rid of him. In hindsight I should have given him a wrong number or my ex boyfriend’s number. That’s always a fun game.
So I deleted his message and had a giggle to myself. We all make mistakes and if giving my number to a guy to get rid of him is the worst I can do, then I’m doing okay. Being single again isn’t going to be all that bad. I’m going to look at it as a positive. At least I now know what not to look for in a man and if I play my cards right I won’t have to buy own drinks again for a very long time.
And if I’m ever lonely and feeling a little unloved by the big wide world, I can always ring one of the random numbers saved under ‘Do Not Answer.’ Those muppets are always up for a chat while I’m waiting for my mud mask to set and my hair to dry. Shit, maybe men still are disposable to me?
On Friday night at the pub, as I sat on my bar stool swinging my legs carelessly and my mind fermented in a bottle of red, I was given a drunken lesson in the fundamentals of Investment Banking. I didn’t ask for this lesson and truth be told, I didn’t much care for this lesson but in my inebriated state it did get me thinking. Investment Banking – It’s a lot like Lego.
Step back with me in time to the hay-day of Saturday morning cartoons, play dates and a working day that starts at 9am and finishes at around 3pm. Now picture your old used and abused Lego set. You’re probably imagining five or six different base colours that come in different sized blocks. Although it may not look like it, that little Lego set is nothing more than a failing bank.
Think of each of those basic colours as a different product type and each different sized block as a client/ counterparty/ bidder/ vendor/ broker etc. When you put the different coloured blocks of different sizes together, you get complex structures. If that structure fails or is somewhat unstable, you can break it all down and rebuild it into something else. The actual structure itself may be different but when you break it down but the basic fundamental building blocks are all the same. These little building blocks can be traded in the playground, lost, stolen or even found.
Can it really be this simple? Have I really just found a way to educate today’s mindless youth with simple reasoning and bright colours? I’m not too sure but I like my diminutive and simple analogy, so I’m sticking with it.
On Saturday morning as I nursed my hangover and munched on left over cold KFC, I wondered if the world economy is nothing more than a Lego village.
When I was young my Lego village had a town centre with the big buildings, roads and the obligatory petrol station and on the outskirts of the centre, I had the houses and the suburban area. I guess the economic down turn is when I ran out of blocks. All construction stopped and all the little Lego Men lost their jobs. My mum was pretty tight with the purse string and she refused to buy me more blocks and feed a false village. I had no choice but to evict my Lego men from their nice houses and make them all live together in a small one bedroom flat on the wrong side of the village. I had to use the blocks from their now empty houses to expand the town and get the Lego men back into the work force. At the tender age of six I clearly had a broad and convoluted understanding of ‘Repossession’ and ‘Public Sector Spending’.
Looking back on it now, I guess all of this could have been avoided. My Lego village was working just dandy until the neighbour came over to the play. It all started when he had this great idea about him lending me his blocks so I didn’t have to repossess anymore houses. I could continue growing the town centre with borrowed blocks. Fantastic, I could use his blocks to expand my village and in return, he would come over and play and relish in the spoils of a massive Lego city. Quite a few of my Lego buildings were now financed by a syndication of building blocks. It worked brilliantly. He was very forthcoming with the blocks and together we created a grand Lego empire. But then something fatal happened. My little play friend was moving away and he was taking his Lego with him.
How do we divide buildings that we built together? We both kicked and screamed until we were blue in the face. I didn’t want to go back to playing with a failing village and he didn’t want to just write off his blocks. We were at logger heads; complete with hair pulling, tantrum throwing and the obligatory name calling. Eventually, just like France and Germany, our parents stepped in. They sat us down and told us sternly to sort it out or they were going to give all our blocks to the Chinese boy who lived down the road.
Together we broke the city down. He took some, I took some and yes, the Chinese kid got the crappy bits that were left over that neither of us wanted.
So as you can see, Investment Banking really is a lot like Lego. It’s everywhere, worth a fortune and yet somehow made complicated by adults. When you think about it, it’s a shame really. Imagine how awesome Europe would be if we let the kids take control and play with it for an afternoon.
Lady About London 
