My professional career can quite reasonably be compared to a sandcastle.
Not an elaborately crennellated, multi-towered, dreamy Schloss-looking creation that wins first prize in a vigorously contested sandcastle building competition.
But one of those small, square crumbling keeps that are unceremoniously dumped out onto the beach from a cheap, castle-shaped plastic bucket.
The maker of this poor excuse for a sandcastle is obviously no tanned Apollo cruising the shore in bright board shorts and fancy flip flops. No, he's a pasty white gnome trying to hide in the shade and afraid of venturing to close to the water's edge.
He won't be missed in the Tiki bar or at the after hours bonfire on the dunes. He's already persona-non-grata at the scuba club. Look, a gang of young beach bums just bounced their volleyball right through the ruins of his sandcastle. They didn't even know it was there.
A grimy seagull swoops down and settles amid the fallen turrets, takes an oily black and white crap and flies away again. The tide is coming in.