The Beautiful Game

My friend is having to temp at the minute and is enjoying the depression and lack of self worth that come with the job. Her quips about suicide will no doubt lose their sparkle with repetition but are amusing at the moment. Ah those halcyon days, I remember them well. Staring at a wall because there was no window. Having to listen to some idiotic bint harp on about the Louis Vuitton bag her boyfriend bought her while I imagined choking her to death. Constantly having to counter allegations to my agency that I wasn't answering the phone with the requisite enthusiasm. All for a mouthwatering £6 an hour.

I am still skint but at least I am no longer sucking cock for cash. I speak metaphorically of course. If I was sucking cock for cash I would be rich apparently. Like £1200 per hour Jenny Thompson. Wowsers, go Jenny!

When I was a kid my mother was convinced that if I saw Pretty Woman I would  run away to the nearest brothel. She had a massive crush on Richard Gere, what can I say? She specifically forbade me from watching it until I was fifteen so I didn't. I never pointed out that by fifteen I was much more likely to get high and party with Kit de Luca types than floss my teeth and mooch about the polo with a silver haired fox. She had no need to know about the things she hadn't specifically forbidden. The only duty of adolescence is to hide your hobbies from parental or other investigation. But now I'm technically an adult and find I'm wondering whether female teens across the country will be inspired by Jenny Thompson. Her five minutes in the spotlight are just so realistically attainable. 'I'm prettier than her' I can imagine them thinking, 'I could earn £1400 an hour pre tips'.

Having thought about it all morning I think it's too late for me to pursue a career as a high end harlot. I just don't think I could muster the enthusiasm I have been busy imagining Jenny feigning for the grunting ape that is Wayne Rooney. 'Oh yes, you big monkey, f*** me, f*** me gorilla man'. I couldn't do it. I've tried really hard to picture myself screwing him and only vommitted twice but to be honest I don't think I did a £1200 job. 'For God's sake' I moan in my finally-making-money fantasy, 'Just hurry up, and keep that bag over your horrible monkey head'. 'But Tania, I can't breathe.' 'Shut up, you boring grotesque gorilla,' I reassure him, 'If suffocation's good enough for Hutchence, it's good enough for you.'

So it's too late for me. But maybe it's not too late for my friend. Maybe I should put her in touch with some escort agencies. They couldn't take more commission than the temping agencies screwing her at the moment and the base rate is infinitely higher. And my friend is young. She's pretty. She likes dresses. She makes an effort. She probably owns her own hairdryer. And if she does really well, she might lend me enough to cover the electric.

I am going to suggest it.

Could you?