Confessions from the City: The forex trader

Like all good foreign exchange and bond dealers in the Eighties, life at the desk was about who could bash whose balls harder. The problem I had is that I didn’t possess any.

As one of the first female forex traders, my physical assets were very different from the men’s — not to mention the content of my conversations, which were not peppered with swearing and innuendo.

For some insane reason, I originally got a job in the fledgling corporate finance department of an American bank in London in 1984.

I’d been at one of the blue-blooded corporate finance boutiques and it didn’t take me long to realise that these lot hadn’t a clue what they were doing.

Sitting through endless crack-of-dawn meetings listening to drones talking “mandates”, I realised that the heart of the bank was the dealing room and I had to be there.

So, having been indoctrinated in New York, with T-bill trading, F/X, swaps and the rest, I returned to the foreign exchange desk in London, immediately responsible for all those FTSE 100 companies with massive exposure — usually overnight — to unknown currencies. Then, the only spot price you could get was on the pound, dollar and yen.

Nothing could prepare you for the baboons in the forex jungle.

Despite having three older brothers, the banter was still eyebrow-raising. “Ship it in Shag”, “Man in the Sand” and “Taiwan Tosser” were frequently heard phrases in the heat of the trading day.

There was no other life other than pond life, with days stretching from 5.30am starts to book covering until 6pm.

The crucial rule to survive as a female trader was to give as good as you got. I got so fed up with the usual comments (“Phwoar, look what posh is wearing” and “Good night, good lay, last night?!”) and the frequent attempts to stitch up my trades.

The only suggestion was some ball bashing — yes, the small black balls you ping around a tiny, hot, white court at speed, dominating the T and barging to block. Squash — a game hardly played in the dealing room.

Fortunately I was quite proficient, so the constant challenge of an F/X dealer, in brand new kit (all the gear and no idea), gassing on about how brilliant he was at the game and that I would get “slaughtered”, was a temptation too much.

So with 11-0, 11-1, 11-2 victories against everyone across the floor — even against big swingers, the top Gilts, F/X and bond boys — there was no ball bashing in my corner.

Just bunches of flowers and free cappuccinos.