Last night I dreamt I attended an interview for a job as a sex line worker. I’m not going to even begin to analyse the possible implications of this dream, and within the logic of the dream-state it never occurred to me that this was in any way peculiar or insalubrious. In fact, to be honest, for at least ten minutes after waking, I was still congratulating myself on identifying a viable alternative revenue stream. What lonely man or woman wouldn’t want to hear my mellifluous RP tones describing… well, what? My state of arousal? I’ve never rung a sex line. They seem sort of quaint in this age of 24-hour rolling pornography. Rather like how internet banking has made the cosy Captain Mainwaring-esque local bank manager obsolete, so the proliferation of streaming sex sites has obliterated the cosy Captain Mainwaring-esque sex line worker.
Anyway, back in the dream, the interview took place in the bowels of a Brutalist public building. It was vaguely reminiscent of the Institute of Education, where I studied for my PGCE. (Is this a clue to its meaning? Now I’ve started working as a private tutor, visiting the homes of clients, do I see myself as a kind of knowledge call-girl? Let’s not pursue this line of thought any further.)
I milled around in a dingy corridor with the other candidates. They were all young drama school types, doing stretches and vocal warm ups. One handsome young bloke began completely undressing until he was down to his pants. We all thought he was going a bit far. I mean, the person on the other end of the line doesn’t know what you’re wearing. I think he was trying to get an ‘edge’ on the rest of us. We all hated him. Twat.
I don’t know what the actual interview process would actually have consisted of, because at this point the dream swerved off into the more familiar realm of exam anxiety. A posh, drama school girl turned to me and asked what my presentation was on. I stared blankly back at her. ‘My what?’
‘Your presentation. Haven’t you prepared a presentation on your specialist topic?’
You see, this is why you should never talk to people before exams or interviews. They always psyche you out. I didn’t know we had to prepare a short speech on our specialist topic! I mean, I thought I was just interviewing for a sex line. I was just planning to win them over with breathy grunts and references to my genitals. Like I do in all my interviews.
This threw me into a panic and I began frantically trying to come up with a specialist subject I could speak about at length. I was trying to get Wikipedia up on my phone, but the signal in this vast subterranean sex office was atrocious. I lamely wondered whether I could talk about British comedy and… Chris Morris and stuff. The anxiety built and built until I woke up in a cold sweat, cursing myself for blowing a golden opportunity to boost my income with a cushy sex job by failing to prepare.
Do you know what I find most depressing about this dream? No, not the obviously grave psychosexual implications. It’s the fact that I couldn’t think what my specialist subject would be. I’d be a miserable failure on Mastermind. I’d probably just end up talking dirty while Humphrys sat there on that big chair. What would that be like?! I think it might go a little something… like this…
Humphrys: I’ve started so I’ll finish (masturbating)!
Audience laughter, cheering.
- Ollie, 06/11/12