Morale has not been high for a while now at the Rather-Large-Bank. The CEO blames the media laying the slipper in and his minions have found all sorts of ways to make us sigh with giddiness at the sight of that shiny logo of ours.

Yesterday, while I was at home pretending to be sick, my team had a bake off.

“Polly!” said Shag-Fiend Director this morning, “you missed the bake off.”

She was not particularly enthused. Rather, she said it as though it was a blessing; that I had made the right choice to stay home and watch Days of Our Lives while Fat Global Head and No Neck Head of Risk battled each other out for baking supremacy.

Last week, when I was still doe-eyed about my future at the Rather-Large-Bank, the team got together for a catch up session. On a round table, where I was again the youngest of everyone, we had to tell each other what path we would take had banking not got the better of us.

“Professional golfer.”

“Editor of Vogue.”

“Chemist.”

“Civil Engineer.”

“Gigolo.”

“Shoe designer,” said Shag-Fiend Director.

The best one came from Francois, the Frenchiest man of my acquaintance. He speaks with a flowing rhythm, almost lyrical, but his face remains expressionless no matter the topic.

“Vell, I always thought,” he began, “I vould be, very good in adveetersing.”

Sniggers.

“In France, ve have very little adveetersing. It is only cars and vashing poadar… It is very generick. It is very easee to say that my shirt is cleaner and vyiter than yours, Fat Global Head. But I think I can really sex up vashing poadar…”

Uncontrolled laughter.

I wish my penchant for accents could shine through in writing.

7:00 am Alarm on mobile goes off. Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies never sounded so annoying at any other time of the day.

7:12 am Gosh, twelve minutes go by fast. Why hasn’t Fabulous Flatmate gotten up yet? Maybe set the alarm wrong.

Nope. Was right. I have to get up soon. I need to wash hair and blow dry it straight so that hair can go “whoosh” whenever I turn my head slightly. “Whoosh” is good. I am sure the Very Fine Energy Industries Director notices “whoosh” of hair.

7:30 am I am still very peeved about not working in Sydney for the week. Why get my hopes up and let conjure up all sorts of delightful working-in-Sydney scenarios in my head over the weekend, only to tell me on Monday that “sorry, you’ll be doing the same thing in Melbourne instead”? I had the whole week – mostly involving lunches with Pixie and Sparkles, and drinks and dance floor grooves at 333 on Friday night. Very mad still. Silent protest at desk (i.e. not doing any constructive work all afternoon) yesterday was obviously not enough.

7:34 am That’s it. I will call in sick. It’s the grand tradition. I will only be un-Australian for not doing it.

7:38 am But it is childish.

7:46 am Fuck that. Am not going. I deserve a day to wallow in self-pity and silent protest while watching day-time TV.

7:50 am “Hi, Shag-Fiend Director. Sorry I can’t make it today. I got a bit of a cold from walking home in the rain last night. See you tomorrow.”

7:51 am Back to sleep. Very good sleep. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? Always, always embrace tradition.

1:05 am Ooh. I had forgotten how good Dr Phil is. Very smart man. Put me on right path. I am no longer angry at Rather-Large-Bank for being budget-cutting cold-blooded wanker-breeding institution. Destiny is in own hands. There are more important things in life than missing out on a business trip. It will come in due time.

1:06 am Commendable insight to pull a sickie.

This week is the start of my second rotation. I feel the pressure to perform for the first time since joining the Rather-Large-Bank. No more Easygoing Manager keeping me updated on the trials and tribulations of Pommy Dude and Half Pint Hottie. I feel out of my depth and far from my comfort zone.

Of course, all this uneasiness has nothing to do with work. Pft. As if. Work is child’s play in comparison to other expectations.

My new manager is in her thirties and a bit of a ball-breaker behind an unassuming façade – much like the band geek girl in American Pie. Finally! A woman of power to respect and emulate instead of the usual forty-something balding male executives, I thought to myself yesterday. As we chatted about our ambitions and interests, I felt an instant rapport between us. My Band Geek Manager is funny and unpretentious. And she seemed to love me instantly too.

“You’ve totally got the respect of Band Geek Manager now,” Heartbreaker told me as we walked back to the Rather-Large-Bank building after lunch. He had previously been working in my rotation.

“Really?” My eyes lit up. It was almost like in year 10 when I was told that the computer geek whom I had a crush on felt the same way about me.

“Yep. She thinks you’re great.”

“Really? Aww…I love her too. She even said I can do some due diligence work interstate sometime soon,” I said, recalling the conversation I had with Band Geek Manager yesterday.

“She’s fantastic to work with. You can learn a lot and still have a great time,” said Heartbreaker. “But you might have to share some good shag stories with her.”

“What!?”

“Well…she thinks you’re going to have some funny shag stories to tell.”

“WHAT?!!” I shrieked again.

“You’re single, right? So she’s expecting wild-single-girl-about-town stories to share.”

“But I have none! I spend most weekends scared that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life!”

“No you don’t. Besides, I already told her about that make out session you had over the Anzac weekend.” Heartbreaker said nonchalantly, unaware that this could well tarnish the professional front I have been trying to carve out for the past four months.

“But there was no sex! It was just making out!”

“Yeah. She said she can respect that, but expects more next time.”

“What about you? Did you share your shag stories with her?” I asked.

“No. I’ve been going out with my girlfriend for three years. We have no fun shag stories anymore.” Heartbreaker said disappointedly.

“Oh.” I said, trying to feign sympathy. “But what am I supposed to do about my non-existent wild-bachelorette stories?”

“As if that’s true!” Heartbreaker said unbelievingly. “You’ve got all these men hanging about.”

How I wished that to be true! Why is it that people think I have the most fabulous life surrounded by hot men and yet I spent the last Saturday night surrounded by dirty laundry?? I looked very unconvinced.

“The Divorcee, for example? What’s happening there?” he continued. “Anyway, you can always just make it up.”

“Make it up?? I am so out of my depth. You have no idea.”

“Don’t worry. You have an overactive imagination.” Heartbreaker tried to ease the anxiety.

Paging overactive imagination (it’s a good thing I have one)! Please conjure up fanciful sexual delights to further Polly’s career prospects.

Amongst the grads, I am fortunate have enough work to wade through the day. But there are many times when working really involves email conversations with friends.

The Heartbreaker works on the floor above me. He is not into emailing. He is a man of spoken word and prefers to call me on my extension.

BRRRING BRRRING…BRRRING BRRRING…goes the telephone everyday at eleven.

“Huuullo, Rather-Large-Bank, Polly speaking,” I answer in my best phone voice.

“Hey, it’s me. You busy?” the Heartbreaker asks.

“Yes, I am. I am very busy and very important.” I say in mock seriousness.

“Really? Doing what?” the Heartbreaker asks with a tinge of envy.

“Running SQL queries to extract data from GDW.” Acronyms make everything sound important. At this point, I see Manager who sits two desks away, give me a thumbs up sign.

“Right.”

“And I'm clustering PCA data with the latest data from CB and YB,” I smugly added.

“You wanna have lunch?” he asks, even though it’s only eleven.

“Absolutely,” I answer without hesitation.

Work is a many strange splendoured thing. My brain has spent the last week and a half bombarded with information and I keep a pleasant demeanour whenever I am at the Rather Large Bank’s headquarters. I feel very uncomfortable at my own pleasantness; the usual horrid sarcasms are eager to be let off the leash.

There are four grads in Risk, all of us are from interstate. Farm Boy is from the wheat and sheep belt of Western Australia. Gold Buttons is from the wine country of New South Wales. They’re probably both delightful young men, but I’m not too sure if they get me when I let the horrid sarcasm out at lunch breaks.

Of course, there is also the very fine looking young man from Brisbane. He is devastatingly handsome, outrageously tall and very well built like all heartbreakers. I think I am very likely to fall for the Heartbreaker and get my heart broken. I have a fondness for heartbreakers.

Every time I see the Heartbreaker at a distance, I quietly sing to myself the Streets song You’re Fit But You Know It before he is close enough to hear it:

I am not trying to pull you,
Even though I would like to.
I think you are really fit,
You’re fit, but my gosh,
Don’t you know just know it.

Of course, the Heartbreaker has a girlfriend. But nevertheless, he is one hell of a funny guy to talk to. We are very similar. Even down to the “fit but know it” mentality. We both strut around with a “hey baby, how you doin’?” smirk.

At lunch today, we were gossiping about people in senior management.

“Have you noticed that Certain Head of Department (CHD) has a wonky eye?” asked the Heartbreaker.

“Yes!! Yes!” I replied ecstatically. It was something I had wanted to say for about a week.

“Sometimes, I just don’t know if he’s asking me a question or the guy next to me.” I confided to the Heartbreaker.

“I think the trick is to focus on just one eye,” explained the Heartbreaker.

“Yes, but the challenge is to figure out which one is the good eye to focus on.” I said.