It had been borne in upon Bertie on countless occasions that a phone call from his winsome private banker Natasha was a prelude to poor investment decisions, and yet he always answered. Our man evidently lacked Odysseus’s resolve to tie himself to his ship’s mast in order not to fall prey to the sirens’ song.
“Hello sir! How are you? Long time”. Natasha began in her lilting sales voice. Bertie realised how scores of sailors who got shipwrecked on the island of the sirens must have felt. One knew that the song was pulling one towards one’s certain demise but it was so alluring that one still steered towards it. “Am good, Natasha. How have you been?” Bertie attempted his formal voice.
“When can I come over, Bert? Let us review your portfolio na.” Natasha continued. “We have some great new products which you will love”. Bertie could see the rocks on the jagged coastline but he was no longer in charge of the words emanating from his mouth. “Next week. Fat Cats Club.”
“Sure sir. Can’t wait” Natasha hung up. Bertie imagined her doing the not-so-nice Leonardo DiCaprio gesture from Wolf of Wall Street after he had hung up on a naive client.
At Fat Cats Club the following week, Bertie looked at his portfolio returns and discovered a new meaning of the word ‘equity’—everything was equally bad. He feebly vocalised this concern: “This is bad, Natasha”.