Friday 4 August 2.45am, Surbiton: Awake with start, heart thumping, the curse of too much red wine. Stagger to ablutions. Rest forehead on wall. Wonder where it all went wrong.

Agent P written in calculator style white text on a red background. A cartoon man in a black suit and red tie is stood on the right of image. He has no facial features but is wearing sunglasses

I was playing off JLL against CBRE in my move from GBH. Wearing a Reading alumni tie to JLL final interview was a mistake. I’d forgotten to take Kingston off the CV.

CBRE withdrew their offer, as it “had come to their notice” I penned Agent P. Worse, far worse. Big Mike told me that Recession 2.0 meant another round of cuts at GBH. I’ve been given the “jump by Christmas or be pushed” option. Charlie Boy, Posh Girl, Posh Boy, Young Thruster and Sporty Girl out the door today. Hence mass drinks at a subterranean wine bar off Mount Street serving filthy claret at £40 a bottle. They left for Soho at 10pm, making it clear I was not welcome.

Can’t get back to sleep now. Open LinkedIn, as you do when bored. The humble bragging, virtue signalling and back scratching hold a strange fascination. But as dawn breaks my eyes keep stopping at the brave souls “looking to open a new chapter”.

Me too. But, at 48, I’m up against millennials promising to throw their “whole selves” into the job, pledging employers “authenticity, honesty and transparency”. I throw up.

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