It’s a very peculiar feeling to be young and work in the City. Here I am, a corporate drone, and ostensibly, public enemy no.1. While I always imagined that if any public protest occurred, I'd be one of the "peace and love" brigade, not part of the establishment. But after a lunch break spent stranded outside the Bank of England with the protesters, my city success never felt like less of a trap. The day started harmlessly enough. Most of us followed advice not to "dress like a banker" – I went for pigtails and shorts. Others were not exactly discreet in their designer jeans and the FT under their arm – which became a bit of joke in the office. None of us were frightened – at least, we decided not show it. Some colleagues watched the demonstrations unfold on TV –I found that a bit tame. As I was dressed the part, I thought it would be more fun to sneak out and join the protesters during my lunch break. I’ve had better ideas. The party started off innocently enough, with a Carnival atmosphere of live bands and cheery songs. Indeed, everyone seemed to be having a jolly time. But as tensions mounted and I remembered I had to get back to the office for a meeting, I suddenly realized I was stuck. The police had cordoned off every street. And I was left jammed in the middle of an angry mob of people talking nonsense about world affairs. I cooked up every possible excuse to weasel my way out of the hippy prison. “Pleeeeaseeee… you have to let me out, I have a meeting.” That didn’t work. “I’m not some crunchy-granola activist. Quite the opposite,” I cried. It even crossed my mind to pull the “I’m the City Girl,”card, but I didn’t have a londonpaper to hand. After about ninety minutes of this I’d never wanted to go back to work so much in my life. I realized I had nothing in common with any of the protesters and that sitting safely behind a desk in a cushy office was just where I belonged. In desperation, I diagnosed myself with anaemia, and as I pretended to faint, and the police finally escorted me out.