It's always good to apply for a job in May, and hear that you haven't got it in August. Royal Mail have managed to stop striking long enough to inform me that I won't be the next Rottingdean postie. They let me know by e-mail, so they've obviously got more sense than to rely on the post.

But fortunately I'm not downhearted because I'm going to be a professional gypsy.


It's not every day you see a job that requires you to have your own caravan. I know Jobcentre Plus will give me a grant for new work clothes, so I wonder if they'd stretch to a two-berth Elddis? I might ask them next time I pop in. I'd like to get in with the gypsies in case I ever need my drive tarmacked. And let's face it, some lucky heather wouldn't go amiss right about now.

But anyhoo, as befits a life on the breadline, I'm off to play golf today. My brother has invited me and Lisa up to Southend for a game that neither of us play. But hey, the line-up includes both Lisa and my 8-year-old niece, so at least I know I won't finish last. Probably second last.