Reduced To Clear part 1: best laid plans
Alright, here’s the deal: I need to make some money. I cannot sell a kidney as the universe decrees that should I find a backstreet kidney dealer* willing to take one, the second would probably pack up through loneliness and solidarity.
I can’t sell my body as a) few people would find it an appealing product b) the market for the memoirs by anxious, pale male prostitutes is not nearly as buoyant as the one for sanitised tomes written by pouting silhouettes selling a fantasy to men afraid their wives might check the credit card statements and women who somehow believe a glamourised list of depressing sexual encounters is empowering.
Along with the prostitution and illegal organ sales options, I’ve scratched the idea of inheriting a vast amount of money from a rich great uncle with a will requiring me to spend the night in his a haunted mansion. Achieving notoriety and piles of cash by penning a novelty pop song about a cheeky penguin seems like an outside bet too.
Lack of a functioning metal detector has also scuppered my chances of finding a treasury of viking coins hidden in a near by car park. Likewise, no workplace to speak of means the televised entreaties to capitalise on a trip, fall or unfortunate incident with a clown car and banana skin are misplaced.
I am notionally a writer. That’s what I tell people I do if they ask. It is an easier thing to say than: I often stare listlessly at a blank computer screen while cursing my failure to understand computer programming or achieve a mastery of astro-physics.
The second description is also very hard to fit in the boxes offered on most forms and asking for additional paper is frowned upon. With my notional writer status in mind, it would make sense to make money by writing things but that’s easier said than done.
To be continued.
* I assume that there is such a thing as a backstreet kidney dealer. I also assume that they all look exactly like Doctor Nick. Especially the women.
