As you may have heard, I've just been recruited for a key investment role by another firm. My new home is a small New York City-based trust company founded by hard-drinking WASP financiers, whose corporate culture, I can now report, has been happily transported to West Coast offices. Longwing brogues are de rigueur. Facial hair is verboten. Gents' jackets are to remain on at all times. And don't forget cocktails at half six. This sort of thing.
You don't need me to list for you the perks of a new job offer. I can disclose, however, that they do include lavish lunches and dinners with eager headhunters, who, in my experience, seem to vary widely between dull betas and cute and willing blonde fillies, the latter providing an opportunity to charm my way into both bank and panties.
Chaps of my background, experience, and impeccable profile are in stiff demand at the moment. The recruitment process is a bit like courting a new girl. The bank for its part sets out to determine with unblinking eye whether the applicant can provide the necessary assets, networks, and expertise to increase revenue. The aspiring banker, for his part, decides if said bank will put out and provide a home in which he can thrive.
When it comes to marriage, as you know, I'm a bit of a traditionalist. So parlous is the idea of marrying a modern girl, however, that one is tempted to demand a dowry. It's the same in banking, where it appears in the form of a hefty signing bonus. Or, as it is sometimes called in the industry (for reasons that elude me), the money shot.
Forgive me if I appear to honour the occasion in excessive, yet private, style.
