Glamour

Greetings from a guest house somewhere near Lochgilphead.

I have seen the rest of you on Facebook, waxing lyrical about the glamour of your jobs. I've seen the photos of your conference in Berlin. I have heard you talking about your trips to London and how you spend your lunch hours in the National Gallery. I hate you. I hate you all, with your lefestyle choices and work/life balance.

What do I get? I get a room for one at the end of a musty corridor, a microwaved steak pie and a telly that only seems to be able to tune into an old episode of "Minder" from 1982. This is not what I was born for. Where are the jet skis? Where are the roulette tables? Where are the women in evening dress?

And most of all where is my valet???? I cannot believe that I am 43 years old, and I haven't even got my own butler yet. Here I am in a strange guesthouse, and I have nobody to press my shirt for the morning, or to fetch me my morning copy of the Times.