As I sit and wish for the weekend to arrive so that I can clock out of the office, I’ve been considering other career options. Being widowed young turns your life upside down, so why not shake it about too? I love my job but I would be keen to explore being:
A sex toy tester
I’m mainly thinking about this because the vibrating bit of my rampant rabbit has stopped working and now I just have a shaft that pumps at various speeds at an odd angle. It’s really not fulfilling at all. I should have returned it in the first place but you can’t exactly send back a once used sex toy with a letter that explains “this product did not give me an intense enough orgasm”. However, if I was officially a sex toy tester, I COULD say exactly that and it wouldn’t cost me a penny! London’s go-to lesbian sex shop, Sh!, easily charges £80 for an inelegant looking silicone dildo. I guess they monopolise on women’s embarrassment and the “fuck, just pay already and get me out of here before anybody sees” feeling. Just give me sex toys for free already. I think being a sex toy tester is a genuinely viable career option for me but I worry about the salary. Does anyone know how to pursue this?
I have an astounding ability to lie. I can even lie to myself to the point that I convince myself that I don’t have a care in the world, despite having a dead wife. Beat that. I’m pretty sure that some of my university peers will have been recruited by the intelligence services, being super smart genii, so maybe I should ask around. And, yes – it’s “genii” according to my university’s dictionary. I think I’d be a really good honey trap type. I manage to con all these Tinder Girls into going on dates with me after all, but I definitely couldn’t do the whole running to catch someone whilst dodging bullets thing. I don’t think it’s a glamorous as in Spooks or Homeland. My grandfather was an undercover anti-corruption police agent, catching gangsters, tapping up their molls for info and fighting off tigers in the Borneo jungle on stakeouts. Clearly my propensity to be super nosy and observant has been inherited from him so maybe I’ll make a good spy. I also have no fear of dying anymore. There are, however, two problems. The first is that I have a tramp stamp tattoo of my name – I was 20 and on a cappella tour in Los Angeles; but on the plus side, if Boy Widower fucks me doggy style as he says he wants to, he definitely won’t call me the wrong name… The second problem is that I have a bipolar diagnosis. Manic people aren’t so good at keeping secrets or staying out of dodgy situations… This career just can’t happen.
A political campaign manager
OK, so I’ve started the Netflix marathon of the Good Wife and I’m feeling inspired by Eli Gold. Being super sneaky, great at digging up dirt on people, and also excellent at manipulating a crowd’s reaction, this could be pretty fun. I also have no UK political party allegiance since, with the exception of that idiot Nigel Farage, everyone’s pretty blah so there are fewer potential problems with me vehemently disagreeing with my candidate’s manifesto. When the adrenalin is pumping, I thrive. It’s all about the winning. Fuck the participating. That’s the attitude you need as a campaign manager, right? Maybe I should look into this one. Any useful contacts out there?
A burlesque artist
This one I’d really love. I spent last Friday at the birthday party of Frisky and Mannish, renowned comedy cabaret duo, for whom I have acted as a singing audience plant several times. I live vicariously through them and their performing success as, once upon a time, I thought I’d be on the stage too. But, when wife became an accountant, I had to be sensible. Maybe it’s time for a re-think. I sent Boy Widower off to meet F&M at the Perth Fringe last month as a little test as to our compatibility re humour; they will have to play at my second wedding, as they did my first. He passed the test. Aaaanyway, putting second weddings to people of the wrong gender aside for a second, also there last Friday were sultry songstress, Polly Rae, and gorgeous, fearless fire breather, Kitty Bang Bang. The first time I was introduced to Polly was a few months ago backstage at the Soho Burlesque Club. She was terribly lovely and extended her hand to introduce herself while wearing only a thong, nipple tassels, heels and red lipstick. I’ve never felt more corporate. If I got back on the stage, I’d have to consider what my unique selling point would be and my stage name. Suggestions? Kitty Bang Bang, a self proclaimed “whisky-soaked, fire-breathin’, chopper ridin’ Princess of British Burlesque”, enthusiastically told me the story of how she taught herself how to breathe fire in her back garden (fire breathe, do fire breathing? What’s the verb?) as a result of a case of mistaken identity and saying yes to a well-paid gig requiring such skills. Now she can even twirl flaming nipple tassels. Beat that, Polly. I think I want this job. It would be the ultimate act of rebellion against my father – he’s a fire investigator. Or maybe something with less fire would be preferable. Getting my kit off on stage quite appeals though 😉
Time’s up. Wine o’clock. Going home via the dry cleaners to drop off my suits.