Let’s Meet for a Mocha at Eleven
You know the drill. You wake up in a panic. You shower, you don the immaculate (and maybe a little uncomfortable) pinstripe suit, you eat a light breakfast, you battle the traffic, you arrive promptly at 9.15am. Just as your clones arrive and take a seat, you are ushered into a cool, featureless room, where three, remote figures shake your hand monotonously. One is the regulatory director, one is the approachable employee who will be one step above you on the ladder and the other, who knows - he has wispy grey hair, bad teeth and is wearing a dreadful camel, cord suit. He never speaks or meets your eye.
You are grilled about your education achievements and career choices for thrity minutes. You legs are seizing up for fear you may not have regurgitated their inane mission statement correctly. Read more…
