Today I'm supposed to be doing something mind-achingly boring for work. Instead I've spent the morning avoiding this by all the traditional means (colour co-ordinating my nail polishes, idly moving trinkets around my mantle piece, calculating how many bags of frazzles can be eaten before my stomach protrudes over the top of my jeans).
This afternoon is given over to wishing I did something different for a living. (I blame
Lexy for this, though really I need little encouragement.)
I take task avoidance very seriously. Sensibly I've first listed my transferrable skills, before pondering over copious quantities of tea, what future use I could be to society. It's not looking good:
New CV/Mastermind List of Specialist Subjects
- the life and times of Anne Boleyn
- an ability to saucily raise one eye brow
- the theory behind the production of the perfect lemon tart (but not the skills to put this into practice)
- the basics of ballroom jive and rudimentary tap (plus ownership of two pairs of tap shoes, one pair of ballroom shoes and a pair of retro roller-skates)
- the ability to quote, ad naseum, the entire scripts of True Romance and The Meaning of Life
- the history of chairs 1910 to 1970
- Foster and Allen songs and lyrics (Go here for Dawn Run, my subconscious favourite. Thanks, Dad.)
- (Pedigree) Sindy dolls and furniture 1976 to 1986
- the best places in Scarborough to catch starfish
- how to mix a lethal gin and dubonnet (like the Queen with lemon over ice, then liquor)
I'm pretty nifty at various sorts of engineering too - I say nifty, entirely on account of having a couple of degrees, a ridiculous number of letters after my name, and phonecalls asking me to do engineery stuff - but engineering gives me an ugly maths face and a sore head. And we can't be having that.
Clearly, if you bundle up all the things above, I've a lot to give and am a real credit to the human race, despite having to use my toes when I count. Ahem. This means I can be whatever I want to be, just like my mum told me when I was little. (Oh dear, Elsie with a sense of entitlment is never a pretty picture.)
When I grow up I'm going to be:
- the namer of lipstick/paint colours
- Antonia Fraser's companion in the 1970s
- Buck Rogers' assistant in the 25th Century
- a Bright Young Thing, circa 1921
- a bed tester/gin taster/professional sloth
- a duck herder
- a continuity assistant (to harness my inner obsessive compulsive)
- Nora Ephron
- a bibliotherapist (I don't really know what this is, but I imagine you can do it in a seated position, with a book in your hand. Win.)
- a cushion plumper in a stately home (It is my only domestic skill. I spend my life obsessing about our cushions and why people don't plump when they stand up. Stop judging.)
Usefully all of them rely on time travel, body snatching and/or getting off my arse. This is not looking good.
Right now, I'm favouring number 5. I don't think these things are mutually exclusive. In fact, if I can just find someone to pay me, I think I've cracked it. (Hendricks? Sleepeezee? You guys need some rigerous R&D of your products to ensure they can be combined by people who like to supper in their beds. Don't be shy, I'm already in the perfect position.)
For my general merriement and to help put off more ugly maths face-dom, do share your Mastermind Specialist Subjects or alternative careers in the comments? Go on, don't be shy.
I already know that
Lexy would like to be 1) a washerwoman 2) the backend of a panto donkey 3) Lilo Lil's stand in 4) the front end of a panto donkey.
Bet you can't beat that, eh?
gin-nurtered time waster.