Wendy Wharton had three children and not a great amount in her bank account to feed them. She worked part-time in a beauty salon. To get a few extra pennies she painted brightly coloured pictures of Mediterranean houses that had window boxes of geraniums. She had a small stall at the market on Saturdays. Her little works of art, usually painted on slabs of wood, were quite popular. Each cost five dollars. At one stage she increased the price and sales slumped, so she went back to selling them for five dollars each.
Wendy’s great moment of glory came when the internationally renowned film star and model, the incomparable Magdalene Cullum, was about to pass by Wendy’s stall. Magdalene paused. She stopped. She purchased the five dollar work of art! It was a small painting of a house near the sea with a little sailing boat skimming in the sunshine. Wendy was rather fond of it herself. “Thank you. I hope it enjoys its new home,” said Wendy.
Several years later the same little painting appeared for sale online. It sold for over five thousand. Of course its value rested on the fact that it had been pre-loved by the internationally renowned film star and model, the incomparable Magdalene Cullum. Who wouldn’t want something, no matter how insignificant, once owned by Magdalene? Everything Magdalene touched turned to gold.
You can get a similar painting for five dollars down at the market on Saturdays. But it hasn’t been touched by a film star.
Cushla had always thought that the word “Serendipity” was something meaningless from some old song, sort of like “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay!” or even “Chim chiminey chim chim cher-ee!” How wrong she was, as she was about to find out.
Cushla had left school and had an ambition to be a model. She auditioned for every modelling job advertised, and was frantic to find herself an agent.
In the meantime, Cushla collected the trolleys from the chain store supermarket carpark. She worked for a pittance, but money was money.
One day, she knew she wouldn’t have time to get changed for an audition straight after work, so she wore a model’s gown and had her hair swept up like she was Cathy on the wild moors just stepping out of Wuthering Heights. What a picture she was wheeling the trolleys in the car park. She was wolf whistled and cheered on and commented about. Such elegance, grace, and creative abandonment all in one little supermarket carpark!
The billionaire owner of the supermarket chain just happened to be leaving the store when Cushla went by wheeling a great train of trolleys. He was blown away with her creativity. She was promoted there and then as the international co-ordinator for supermarket carparks. She travelled the world. She modelled and trained models in every company carpark throughout the globe. She was on a huge salary. She was very successful.
Cushla did this fabulous modelling job until she was wrinkled and old – about thirty-seven. But it didn’t matter. She was very rich. And anyway, she had already bought the supermarket chain.
Day 1: What fun it will be posing for an artist. Of course, I have the body for it. And what fun to wear scanty clothing and get paid for it. The artist is soooo sexy. He paints just in jeans, with a ripped T shirt. I’ll have no trouble looking sexy for his painting.
Day 2: Can I put my arms down now? Do I have to keep still all day with my hands behind my head? WHY CAN’T I PUT MY ARMS DOWN?
Day 3: Can I put my arms down now? It hurts.
Day 4: Shit.
Day 5: I’m not going to work today. As far as I’m concerned, he can find another model.
There’s no need to fret and get upset. All I said was “You’re almost skinny enough to be a model”. I meant it as a compliment. It’s true – you are almost skinny enough to be a model. There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s no need to get upset about it.
Try to remember the positive – like the time you were fat and repulsive and you decided to do something about it. And you did. You lost a lot of unnecessary weight and you should be proud of what you’ve achieved and not upset about it. Of course, going on a diet like you did, can’t do anything about looks. That’s not my responsibility. Nor yours, to be frank. You can’t improve the face God gave you without a great deal of expense. Yet, you are almost pretty enough to be a model.
But being overweight is something you can do something about, and you did. Although all your old clothes no longer fit, and you look like a rag doll, that’s no reason to spend most of your time in tears, blubbering away like some God-forsaken lamb dressed as mutton. If you could perhaps adapt your clothes a bit I would say that you would almost be dressed well enough to be a model.
So, to sum up: you are almost skinny enough to be a model, you are almost pretty enough to be a model, and you would almost be dressed well enough to be a model to advertise the can of beans on our supermarket brochure. But you don’t quite tip the scales.
Stella had the most beautiful hair. Her hair was the envy of everyone. All who saw it couldn’t help but gush with wonder and admiration. It was almost as if Stella was a mutation. Her hair was probably why the artist had asked Stella if she would mind posing for a painting.
“Just look up to the ceiling for a minute if you would,” asked the painter.
“Turn your head slightly to the right,” asked the painter.
“Gently frisk your hair to the left. Just a little! Perfect!” said the artist.
“All done,” said the artist. Pablo Picasso put down his brushes.
Stella had the most beautiful hair. It was just a shame she had only one eye and in the middle of her forehead, three ears, and a nose that pointed in two directions at once.
Sophia was an aspiring model. Already she had appeared in a glossy advertisement that was posted in everyone’s mail. She was wearing a brushed cotton dressing gown. Sooo sexy. Her mother had cut out the advert and put it in a scrapbook.
And now the rock star was in town. Sophia was in the foyer of his very hotel. Here he comes! There were other women “hanging around”. Sophia struck up a pose. Kind of casual. Kind of sensual. A liaison with the rock star would enhance her career.
And sure enough. A message came to Sophia: Would she like to spend some time with the rock star in his room?
Fourteen hours later, Sophia reappeared. “I’m so hungry,” she gushed. “Just sooo hungry. The rock star made love to me six times.”
The waiting Press flashed their cameras. Sophia was famous! The modelling jobs couldn’t help but come in now. In fact, it was front page stuff.
Later that day the rock star issued a press statement:
“We didn’t make love; we had sex. And if memory serves me right, it was eight times not six.”