As I’ve mentioned here before, London’s Institute of Directors in Pall Mall is one of my regular work haunts.
Their grand (if sometimes-too-busy) rooms are staffed extremely professionally, ensuring a regular supply of rather good coffee. One quiet day recently, the very sweet waitress who looked after our group was rather younger than usual – a summer job during her university or boarding school vacation I surmised.
How had she secured a post at such a prestigious venue? Surely daddy – a director of some influential company – had pulled strings. And when she was dismissed from her post for arriving late and skipping work? The whipping he’d give her that night in his study would be merciless – not least to cure her of her attitude that she really shouldn’t have had to work at all, given the family’s wealth. By the time she reached bed, sobbing and sore, she’d have learnt an invaluable lesson about the need fur hard work and about not taking her good fortune for granted.