In long ago days, fired as a Star sports scribe at age 20 and convinced my future in journalism had come to an ignominious end, I took a job in a body rub parlour.
It was called Henry VIII.
I was a wench.
The ad had promised heaps of money. No experience was required. This was quite alluring for someone with the limited skill-set of Girl Reporter and an incomplete B.A.
Despite zero training as a masseuse, I was promptly hired and “apprenticed’’ to a couple of old hands, you should forgive the expression. Such was my naïveté — and nobody had indicated differently during the job interview, or probably I was too dumb to pick up the clues — I genuinely believed the gig entailed massaging, clinical-like, maybe even done whilst wearing a white lab smock. The medieval corset should have been a tip-off.
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