Blunderstone aside, your focus being on a meaningless meeting you have gotten roped into because, frankly, noone else in the firm could be bothered to go, so Gianluca, a smelly director from the media team has roped you into coming in.
The client, a major UK plc has its offices in the centre of town, so you take a black cab only to find that the heavy traffic will get you nowhere. You pay the friver, get out and decide to walk the remaining stretch.
As you pass Selfridges, you gaze at the barbie and Ken displays they have in one of their windows and it all starts to make sense. You see yourself, as the firm sees you. You look something like this.
Your perfectly fitted custom made suit, crisp white shirt, light blue tie, black laceups, leather carrier bag, which ahs recently replaced the scruffy firm standard gym bag you received when you joined, which by now is well worn and the colours have faded from washing.
You are an investment banker, just like little ken here. Clean shaven, sharply dressed, able and young, and another off-the-shelf resource of the firm.
The firm, then, you reslise is much like a spoiled little girl, collecting her barbie dolls ad infini until one day (in a bear market), she decides she's got too many i-banker analyst Kens. She'll decide to give some a of them a haircut, buy them a new outfit and promote them to associate Kens. And some, sadly will end up in Oxfam.
So what's all that hoo ha about an i-banks most valuable resources walkign out of its doors each eveing. You're tempted to dispute this universal truth, when you realise, that it still, very much holds firm. You and the other monkeys stay in the office each evening, well into the wee hours, later than most of the staff have left for the day, which leads you to the inevitable conculsion that you must not be the bank's most valuable resources. The thought of plankton at the bottom of the ocean fills your head as you head to the client meeting.