Beyond my Means

Nothing is going right. I work night shifts in A&E and apply for an average of four, far more glamorous, jobs a day. Would I like to work at the Serpentine Gallery? For the Royal Shakespeare Company? For Vogue? YES, Yes I would. And I think, somewhere in my subconscious I already do.

How else can I explain the fact that I live so far beyond my means that I can’t even see them anymore? I blame television. And literature And my youth. Ok, I blame the television and literature of my youth. No one ever told me that life continued after high school; Heartbreak High and Saved by the Bell went on and on, how was I to know that my life wouldn’t be a similarly rolling rostra of cast members and hilarious jokes? How was I to know that things could get harder than having a crush on Zach or Drazic (shh!)? I think one of the graduating class from Saved by the Bell went on to be in Show Girls, and Screech made porn. These aren’t role models, what was I thinking?





As for literature my printed diet consisted of Evelyn Waugh and P.G. Wodehouse. Both writers deal in the farcical trials and tribulations of the upper middle classes, being out of work is a lark, having nowhere to live is a jape. And sooner or later an aunt or drunk Colonel will bequeath you a tidy sum and we will all live happily ever after. If I am to follow the example of P.G. Wodehouse (and he’s got to be a better leader than Screech) then all I need to do is get myself a job as a gentleman’s gentleman (that’s butler to you and me) in a large country house, the rest will follow. I grew up still believing that most people, out in the wide world that I hadn’t yet been granted entrance to, had valets and butlers and maids. I suppose these roles now come under the blanket umbrella of the p.a., or worse still, “assistant”. I can’t bring myself to do it, Wodehouse would never have written about assistants!

Perhaps I should just see how far I can push it and get myself a butler.