I have a new job.
It is one of those jobs that make you wonder what you did the night before to deserve it. The tube ride is a relaxing 40 minutes from door to door, including trains that ran on time and uncrowded carriages of good looking men in suits. Exiting the tube I am met by the clean, green scent of the breeze off Green Park, the route to work taking me through the quiet streets of St James past shops that sell that indefinable edge that makes the posh and rich look right.
The office is serene and elegant; wood panelling, original artwork, lush carpets, silver service, three butlers, a wine cellar and a corporate curator. My own office has two windows, an armchair and brass plate on the door that is shiny enough to check my reflection in. There is a full cooked lunch each day in the dining room and I am already in possession of complimentary tickets to exhibitions that employees are entitled to.
This is the kind of job I imagined London to be able to offer, but I did not realise that I could get into it without an interview and still get paid for it. The crowning glory of my new position is that I support an Australian woman, which means I finally have a boss that understands my working style and ethic.
I think I may be forced to stop whining about London now.