KEY POINTS:
Lately, I've spent some time pondering the life of the prostitute. Not the sex bit, which really doesn't take much examination at all, but the choice of client - how, even on a good day, it becomes necessary for most prostitutes to have sex with a big, fat, sweaty guy because you're there to make money, not enjoy yourself.
You may wish that selling yourself for money would bring in the odd taut and terrific honey who would thrill you, but it's the pasty-faced heart attack waiting to happen that you end up with. The reason I've been pondering prostitution is because I too have relations with the big, fat, sweaty guy, metaphorically. I write for him. Large, oily scripts for reality television are my main squeeze.
I join him on this journey because the money he offers multiplied by the time it takes - he's very responsive - equals a good income.
When I started freelancing from home five years ago my business partner, more commonly referred to as my husband, insisted that if I was going to storm out of another job I should have some sort of financial Plan B in place.
And that amount should match what I earned on salary. It was cruel of him to pimp me out that way, but we have five children and a mortgage and quite frankly faffing around in the garden cooing to my chickens and inventing natural cleaning recipes was not going to feed either.
So I set about working from bed in my pyjamas if I chose to, not starting work until midday if the mood took me and never, ever having to be part of the infamous "water cooler" conversation, the shared coffee with a colleague or Friday night drinks. I was a free agent - well, almost.
Like a new girl on the block, I strutted out on to the K Rd equivalent of freelance writing and set about screwing an awful lot of big fat, sweaty guys. I was new to the game and reasoned I had to start somewhere.
Gradually the work got better. I even sat down after two years and worked out that I hadn't had a horrible client in a year and felt good about what I was doing.
Oh, how naive was I? It's a hard habit to break, prostitution. Just when you think you don't need him, he turns up on the front door waving a wad of cash. What the hell, you think. How awful could it be?
Lately I've found it easier to swallow by doing the holiday equation. This involves taking the amount of cash offered by your client and multiplying it out into a holiday; the reasoning being that you can put up with an awful lot of grunting in return for a couple of weeks in the Mediterranean.
As you type your fingers to the bone re-working the phrases "Who will it be tonight, New Zealand?" and "After the break, will [fill in here] survive to sing for his supper?" in a hundred different ways, you transport yourself to another plain, one where the sun shines, the men are tanned and taut and the martinis are constant, much as I imagine my prostitute sisters do on their backs, gazing at the blinking pilot light of a smoke alarm on the hotel ceiling.
And then it's over. You have your tickets but you are always left with a gritty feeling of self-loathing. "I can't believe you did that" is a voice in your head you'd rather wasn't there.
So I made up my mind to do a client audit. I would delete from my computer accounting system any clients who qualified as the big, fat, sweaty guy. The job was done within minutes and there I sat looking at the income generated from the jobs I truly love. The ones I live to write for.
In the cold harsh light of a dreary, damp Auckland winter I realised I needed him.
"Everyone has a big, fat, sweaty guy," said a friend who works in an office every day for a salary. "I've got three in my office alone. Just because you can pick who you work for, doesn't mean it gets any better."
Call waiting beeped annoyingly in my ear. I took the call then buzzed back to my friend.
"It's him," I groaned.
"Think of England," she replied helpfully.
