One spring morning, 25 years ago this week, I presented myself for work for the first time at the Financial Times wearing a brand new, orange corduroy skirt and feeling sick with nerves.

Today, as on most other mornings in the past quarter of a century, I will present myself again for work, though these days I no longer wear orange corduroy and no longer feel especially nervous. As on other mornings, I will take my place at my desk from which I report on the modern world of work, where no job is for life, all skills are portable and loyalty refers to a plastic card that you produce at the till at Tesco. In other words, it's a world in which I've become an anachronism.

Last week I had lunch with an acquaintance and by way of making conversation, I said I was about to celebrate 25 years at the newspaper. "Twenty-five years," he repeated, his face contorting with horror. "I would keep that quiet if I were you."