Hair for the headhunters

Francis starts the day by making a spreadsheet, listing all his job applications to date, so he has statistics-backed evidence to prove what a failure he is.

I suggest we extend it by including all the other bad things that happen to him, of the when the dog barks, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad variety (where were you when we needed you, Julie Andrews?) so we can try to work out if the gods are using him as their plaything or if he's just prone to exaggeration.

"I thought it was as silly idea at first," he says, "but it's really useful." He types 'Rejected' and the date in a tiny box and then reads it several times with an air of mournful satisfaction.

Meanwhile, the headhunters are doing their best.

Posh headhunter has come up with a really super opportunity as a payroll manager in Inverness.

Scary headhunter has communicated by e-mail. "Your cv is a model of good information and well laid out. We will certainly be in touch," she concludes, though without any suggestion as to when this might be, if ever.

Excitable headhunter has come up with a small company that 'specialises in bridging the gaps between beauty and medicine' - presumably by weaving great big ropes out of bandages and then swinging across the gap.

In recruitment speak, it's a niche brand specialising in luxury quality human hair extensions with a 'unique, non-destructive application technology'. Translated, that means it collects human hair and makes things with it. Possibly bridges - who knows? As a company that's going places, it needs someone who's 'well spoken, with gravitas and able to consolidate relationships with top level managers'.

"And lots of hair?" I ask, meanly. Francis feels the top of his head gingerly. "Well, they haven't asked for a family history of male pattern baldness yet," he says.