The dream appears to be over before it's begun.
The bally DWP won't foot the bill for a Hackney carriage next week, and have opted for a telephone interview instead.
The old war wounds have given me a bit of a wobble today, so I thought it only correct & proper to check on the travel-expense situation.
Bit of a heads-up before a balls-up, as they say.
Apparently taxis & hotels are a no-go these days.
I can fully understand.
If the system were more flexible, the work-shy layabouts next door would abuse it;
hiring a stretch limo and racking up lines of moo-moo on the back of their raspberry phones no doubt.
It's a bloody awful shame though.
I was really looking forward to cold-calling a few blue-chips with John, my Personal Adviser.
Thought we could rattle off a few CVs, smash a few Pyrex ceilings, burn some midnight oil, in sweat stained nylon shirt sleeves.
But never mind.
It turns out I have THREE Personal Advisers anyway.
One of them's called Janet, and she's a woman.
I just can't help thinking I may've lost a good friend in John.
Sad times.
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