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I actually really like my current job, a PR lowliness at the Museum of London - so much so that I think of stuff to do for it when I'm not working - cool marketing gimmicks and press stunts and stuff (I really hope my boss is reading this) ...
But if I had money enough to afford not to work, my already demanding "hobbies" would eat me alive. I would rehearse loads and write more songs for my cabaret act with Orr, I'd finish the novel I started during NaNoWriMo, I'd write a short story and a poem every week (actually not impossible even with a day-job), I'd go to every play and film and exhibition and charity shop I've ever wanted to go to, and I'd start cooking properly instead of living off cheese sandwiches.
I'd start directing again. I'd take a stand-up comedy course and a French refresher course. I'd start ice-skating and swimming and skiing again (the only sports I was ever any good at).
I'd open a bar that had a max capacity of 30 and sit behind it giving my friends free drinks and enjoying the chill. No-one in my bar would ever go without a seat or a table, or ever have to shout over the (tasteful, subtle) background music. It would stay open until 1am every night and would have art on the walls and comedy nights and extremely good coffee with cream. And cakes and an excellent (though not exclusively) veggie menu, and would only serve cocktails I had invented myself, except for Martinis.
The sad thing is that I know at least two people who have this unimaginable luxury. One is now 30 and has done precisely fuck-all with his life, so much so that I'd want to slap him silly if he weren't so adorable. The other spends his time socialising, shagging, and writing stuff that will never see the light of day. Nice work if you can get it, indeed ... |
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