It's rare that I blog about work, but I had a bit of an odd day today. Come to think of it, a very odd day.
Sometimes my job throws up some wierd stuff. Like the time I had to go around all the magazine houses in London accompanied by an angel (actually, a male model dressed as an angel, who had to be smothered in glittery body lotion prior to the event - yes, by my own two hands - and who complained bitterly all day about the fact that his wings hurt). Or the time I had to look after five journalists at a music festival; they dropped acid as soon as we arrived and talked bollocks for the duration, then dropped more acid on the bus home and had to be carried to their front doorsteps. Or the time I took half the editorial team of a big UK lad's magazine to Belgium; the features editor spent the entire weekend in his hotel room and came to blows with the hotel manager when he tried to leave without paying his porn channel bill.
Yes, I have many stories, but nothing felt quite as surreal as it did today.
Today, I balanced fresh fruit on the breasts of one of Britain's top models.
No, this is not a strange peccadillo of mine. It was work, although I must admit that dancing around a studio with a never ending supply of donuts on hand is much less arduous than toiling in the office and being balled out by (at least) one of my clients. And before you start wonder if I'm a prostitute pandering to the bizarre fetishes of my high flying punters, the fruit balancing was for a photo shoot. While I would love to call it art (and the resulting images are amazing) it is art of a more commercial nature, designed to draw the eye and persuade consumers to part with their hard-earned cash. Such is the way of the world.
Read the British papers next week, and all will be revealed... (or at least, I bloody hope so or my ass is grass).