by Bruce Robinson

September 1999: I'm on a trading floor, talking down a phone, selling derivatives to an obstinate American client. I'm earning six figures a year, and I'm utterly miserable. Fast-forward a year. A different office. I'm still talking down a phone, but now I'm working for a homelessness charity. I'm earning nothing, and I've never been happier. How the hell did that happen?

After eight years in the Square Mile, my life in the fast lane had run out of gas. I no longer cared about the markets or my clients, and I wasn't even bothered about my bonus. I snoozed in front of my screens, waking to find dribble on my desk. I was moody and moany, vacantly sullen, a fun guy to be with.

Having hated my job for a year, my performance was pretty poor. I told myself that it was just temporary, that things could always get better, but in my heart I knew my career was comatose. Yet how could I leave? What else could I possibly do? The markets provided few skills transferable to the real world, and nothing else paid nearly as well. It took a friend to open my eyes. On discovering the ruddy-faced health of my bank balances, she pointed out that I could afford to leave the next day: the only thing stopping me was myself.

Only then did I begin to consider life outside the City. Over the next six months I applied for a few jobs, but my lack of conviction was transparent, and rewarded accordingly. I didn't know what I wanted to do; I only knew what I didn't. More months passed with me stuck in my silken rut until another friend got drunk to the point of truthfulness and, exasperated, snapped that I should "go and work for a charity or something".

Immediately everything became obvious. I decided to take some time off and volunteer for a worthy cause. If I guaranteed them six months, I reasoned, I would surely find an interesting, challenging job that would account for my time away from paid employment. Meanwhile I could rethink my options and look for a new career. Everyone would be a winner. All I had to do was find the charity.

This proved to be the tricky part. There are a lot of voluntary organisations out there. With ignorant simplicity I discarded entire sectors and ultimately decided on twelve, ranging from overseas aid to homelessness. I updated my CV, wrote some letters, and sat back for the flood of replies.

It was a long wait. After a month of silence, I was getting discouraged. This was compounded by the few replies that tiptoed back. One said they were very keen and would be in touch. I never heard from them again. Another said they had no need for me, a third had envelopes to be stuffed. Some never replied.

Finally I began to get some interest and arranged surreptitious meetings: with bonus time approaching, I didn't want anyone to know my plans. But the suggested jobs – databases, media monitoring, or worse – were useful rather than interesting. Not unreasonably, several people wanted me to twist some City arms into stumping up serious money. Yet the last thing I wanted was to turn up with a begging bowl and a big smile, trying to tap my former friends.

After three months, my plan was wobbling badly. The organisations I was talking to seemed to be in a state of chaos, or unable to think beyond the narrowest boundaries. Almost every one had failed to reply, lost my details, didn't want me, or needed me only as unskilled office-fodder. Only a lucky break saved the situation. A friend of a friend recommended her old employer, a campaigning charity working with homeless people. It had been on my original list of twelve. I had written to them twice but received no reply. She suggested I try again, and gave me a name.

This short cut made progress delightfully swift. Within days I had met my new contact. She seemed enthusiastic and quickly came back with a proposal. As a history graduate with eight years of trading interest rates, I understood little of her spiel on green papers, but understood that she wanted me to research smart schemes that prevented or alleviated homelessness. Anything valuable would be used in their response to this green paper thingie, and so might actually achieve something, she said. After years mentally treading water, I liked the idea of learning something new, even housing policy. I was eager to start – as soon as my bonus was banked.

In February 2000, four months after I began my search, I left the City. My colleagues confided over drunken celebrations that they had thought I'd never really do it, and how they'd considered doing the same but "didn't have the nerve". Yet as a single person, with only a small mortgage and bonuses stashed away, I was in a unique position. And only I knew how desperate I was to leave.

Unusually muted and nervous, I found my first weeks endlessly surprising. Accustomed to the buzz of a trading floor, this new environment was disturbingly quiet. I could hear the tapping of keyboards and conversations on the phone. Even these were different: people spoke in whole sentences, without the "yeah, yeah, right, right, offer this, bid that, done" tempo I knew so well. As for the people, I was expecting a collection of wet do-gooders, but was surprised to find, genuine friendliness, with my previous career attracting only curiosity, mixed with sympathy.

The biggest surprise, however, was me. Arriving for a six-month stint, steeped in City cynicism, I never expected to enjoy it so much. The office was basic and the computers prehistoric, but I loved it. With the tedious zeal typical of converts, I had found a home and had a new subject to bore friends with. It helped that I enjoyed the project, that the office hummed with purpose and every day brought something new. And I liked the people, even when I forgot I was no longer on a trading floor and they had to tell me to shut up and stop shouting.

It took five months to complete my project. That done, I had no desire to leave and volunteered for another couple of months, writing bits and pieces, even stuffing envelopes. Just as I was planning to go and earn some money, I was asked to stay and temp in the press office. By September I was earning much less and working much harder than ever before, but according to everyone who knew me well, I was "a new man".

This experience was a true eye-opener coming from an environment where your worth was your bonus, and where the key to life unlocked a Porsche. It was novel to be working twelve-hour days without complaint for what I once regarded as a pittance. It was amusing to see the faces of former colleagues who assumed I was massaging my conscience and livin' la vida loca, when I told them – truthfully – that I had never worked harder.

I don't think the City is an easy life. There are too many egos, too much unnecessary aggro, for it ever to be a breeze. Equally, it's not that tough; it just wasn't right for me. Considering myself reasonably intelligent, I'm somewhat embarrassed it took me so long to figure that out. I'm just very glad I got there in the end and, looking back on my time at Shelter – the best year of my life – I wouldn't have changed a thing.


© Bruce Robinson, 2001. A version of this article first appeared in The Guardian.

Bruce Robinson is now a freelance writer and journalist. He works for a number of private, public and voluntary sector organisations as a consultant, writer and editor for print and the Internet. His articles have appeared in The Guardian and on BBC Online. He can be reached at Brucerob@freenetname.co.uk