Ok, this is new…I’ve met some cute recruitment consultants in my time, but I’ve never wanted to sleep with my line manager before. Boy she’s pretty.

 We’re lounging on the leather sofas in the atrium (this is a major household name, of course they’ve got an atrium), swapping war stories about projects, and I’m making her eyes go wide with my tales of achievement (the lies are so plausible I’m even believing them myself now). Metaphorically at this point I’m dimming the lights and slipping on the Sinatra.

 She’s telling me about the culture, the holidays, the lifestyle. The subtext of which is that basically if you actually make it into the office each morning you’re seen as something of a high flyer. I think we’re at the start of a beautiful relationship: leggy, clever, low expectations – this is my ideal woman.

 Until, the talk moves on to the size of my package. Or more specifically the gulf between what they offer, and what I’m already on. Scrumptious as she, and the job are, I’m not paying for the pleasure.