It’s just gone eight O’clock and I haven’t slept. It’s the morning. It’s easily been a week since I last stood awake to catch the breakfast news,
These past few weeks have bored me, I’ve not been the North pole or the moon, nor have i saved the world from nuclear meltdown or feminism. No: I need an occupation, it would seem, other than smoking, drinking, reading, music, being ill and chasing girls.
This had me pondering….what should I be when I grow up? A question of trivia to a sprog though a serious one at twenty two, or twenty three or however old I tend to be these days.
They say “do what you like doing”..apparently, but I never heard that in my youth, I received an “earn loads of cash” a point to the front door, followed by a stern “Now!” with a kick up the arse rendering me toppled over like some silly Dickensian chimney sweep. So what do I “like”? Abiding by the former formula I would say I like being a non toss giving, booze swallowing, theatrical, artistic, letter writing lunatic. Unfortunately these aren’t fitting qualifications for a man of the modern world, so what occupation comes closest to fitting my rather specific social profile?
Writing, I like writing, but I doubt it will have me swimming in fifty pound notes so i’ll keep it a hobby until someone thrusts a commission before me. Acting? Well its always caught my minds eye, but unless I find myself kidnapped, put in a potato sack and thrust upon the boards by a hoard of burly bruisers, it’s not going to happen. The problem is; I could continue pondering for years; what I must do, is try everything I can, the one that last longest prior to my firing for preposterousness shall be taken seriously and considered as a potential career.
Time then, it would seem, for a series of silly jobs.