Either an artist is highly paid or barely paid at all. And depending on your take of matters artistic, either state of affairs can be deemed glamourous.

The rich, successful artist, whose work has found acceptance and respect is seen as a model, someone to look up to, and draw inspiration from.

The poor struggling artist trying to eke out a living, and gain some sort of recognition, is likewise seen as a model, someone to look up to, and draw inspiration from.

It really depends on which side you like your toast buttered, but whichever that is, there remains a certain number of constants, a certain degree of what is known as BS, that must be tolerated regardless of where you are placed on the financial earnings spectrum.

First there are the opening nights. Your night of nights is sullied by the pretense and verbal garbage some people will speak merely for a glass, or ten, of your Moet. Or perhaps a, shall we say, mass produced sauvignon blanc, as the case may be.

And do such rounded art critics have any intention of buying one of your works? There’s a slight chance you might snare a sale before the last of the chardonnay and cheese vanishes down their art appreciating throats.

Then there are the people who really don’t know a thing about what they are viewing. They are only in an art gallery because they are trying to impress their latest partner, who said he or she loved “spending Sunday afternoons in art galleries.”

And he or she only wrote a line like that on their match dot com profile because they wanted to give the impression they are educated, articulate, and have an appreciation of the “arts”.

So no sale there. And to add insult to injury they are telling you, as they don’t realise that you are in fact the artist, that your work could be “produced by a five year old child”.

Are you beginning to get an idea of how difficult this all is?

Why are people born to suffer, be artists, and then die? Why do you go to arts school to learn the “rules” when art is all about freedom of expression, and not abiding by any rules?

How can making a salary of $5000 (in any currency) be deemed glamourous and fabulous. Well here’s how.

An artist is one of the few people who can create what they dream. Who can follow a wisp of inspiration and toil for days, weeks, or longer, to transform a blank canvas, a piece of wood, rock, or marble, or any other material, or media, they care to work with, into a story, a message, a statement, something that baffles the comprehension, and taxes the imagination of we the onlookers, and sometimes makes us simply stop and stare in awe.

Tell you what, no stockbroker, accountant (not even a creative accountant ), or socialite, could ever do that.

A love of money may indeed be the root of all evil, but any artist will tell they are not in it for the money, they are in it for the art.

The pay is non-existent and the hours are long. Yet it’s a “job” many would give their right arm to have.

Why?

Because office holders are usually “kept” men or women, who live like princes or princesses, and the “long hours” usually entail whiling away the small hours at cocktail parties thrown by the rich and fabulous.

But calling it a job is just a little bit “common”, don’t you think? So let’s refrain.

Besides, being Just Over Broke does not make for a good socialite, now does it? Plus office gossip just doesn’t rate when compared to A-list gossip.

You do not study at university, or trawl the classifieds looking for “openings”, to become a socialite. Either you are born into it, talk your way into it, or marry into it. Period.

So what’s it really like? You know, what’s a day on the (for want of a better word) job all about?

You know, it really strikes me as being like acting. Like a movie star. But you substitute acting ability for pretense. There are air kisses, superficial greeting hugs, and gratuitous use of the word dah-ling (if that’s even a word) aplenty.

I used to live next door to a socialite. I never met her, though I considered it a privilege to catch a fleeting glimpse of her dashing out of the building, and into a waiting taxi limousine.

I think she had a closed circuit TV that monitored the hallways of the apartment building, and she only made an entrance to exit, as it were, when the “coast was clear”.

She was also the only person in the building whose apartment had a balcony, so being a socialite obviously has its advantages when it comes to deciding “who” (such a FAB magazine, by the way, dah-ling) is allocated balconies.

I used dread her parties though, and you had to watch your step if you were walking below her balcony when she was entertaining her (non A-list) friends, lest you were hit by the wayward cork of a campaign bottle.

Incidentally an idea of the grandness of the previous (simply enchanting) evening’s (simply delicious) frivolities could be gauged by the number of discarded corks that littered the courtyard in the morning.

Wait up though. A socialite living in an… apartment block? Yes indeed. Who would have thought it?

But that also says something about being a socialite, doesn’t it? It’s all about appearances and how you carry yourself off. It’s about the face and the cocktail dress. And the ability to explain away unknown quantities.

“I live in an older style apartment building, you understand. Classical yet quaint. But without an elevator. Something to do with the building’s heritage listing, you understand. Therefore makes my place unsuitable for entertaining, you understand.”

Enough about my brush with celebrity though.

Is being a socialite for you? Well if you can handle the A list, the champaign, the tax havens, learjets, and hanging out with movie stars, rock stars, and fashion photographers, then maybe.

And appearances aboard Royalty yachts, and at polo matches don’t bother you either? Brilliant! So if you have that certain something, and the gift of the gab, then go for it!

Any down sides to this sort of “work”, you ask? Well, yes, unfortunately there is. You can never, ever, apply for the unemployment benefit. And that has nothing to do with shame, or pride, either. Unfortunately the welfare office just won’t buy it when you try and tell them you are an “unemployed socialite”!

Soooo sorry, dah-ling!

Apparently being a stockbroker is a glamourous job. Or fabulous, as we say it at The InterChange Desk.

I read as much in a glossy magazine (whose title evades me now) while sitting in my dentist’s waiting room the other afternoon. (It was an article featuring stockbrokers, not unfortunately, The InterChange Desk, just in case there was any confusion in that last sentence.)

Really fabulous jobs, like being a rock star, actor, fashion photographer, model, et al, the ones that totally evade mere mortals like us, are what I’d consider to be, well, absolutely fabulous.

As a stockbroker you have to wear a suit. A gray pin-stripe suit at that. Not to mention dull ties, and boring business shirts, and while I’m laying on the generalisations ad lib, bowler hats. Unless you’re a stockbroker working in New York.

You also have the privilege of working in an office.

And it is on that basis I fail to see how stockbroking could possibly be considered… glamorous.

Sorry to break it to you, but there is nothing glamourous, fabulous, or otherwise cool, about working in an office. Why do you think this column is called the FAB (pro)files? Because so far none of the occupations reviewed have been office based.

Nor do they involve wearing a suit (Ok, aside from a uniform here, and a SPACE suit there…). Unless it was personally designed by one of the fashion gods.

And sure, Ricky Gervais made office work look cool, but that was all made up. No one really had to suffer “working” in those beige conditions, under those beige fluorescent lights.

Truly fabulous jobs entail not getting out of bed each morning for anything less than ten thousand dollars, and even then only working for 20 minutes a day. Or something. Truly fabulous jobs only require the uttering of a smart one-liner, or posing with a suitably sensuous pout and smoldering darkness in your eyes.

Also I don’t know how shouting yourself hoarse on the overcrowded trading floor of a stock exchange is remotely glamourous. That sounds more like a long hard night at the Roundhouse bar during O Week at the local university.

Then again stockbrokers are on a pretty good retainer. They probably have a few Mercedes and Rolls parked in the garage. Vintage models and late models. And the garage probably has ten parking bays, and is also air conditioned.

It sits underneath the 35 room mansion stockbrokers live in, which is accessed by elevators from the garage. Out in the backyard you’ll find an Olympic size swimming pool, and most likely a nine hole golf course.

They probably have a couple of holidays homes along the coast, and take two month vacations to where ever takes their fancy annually.

So yes, all up, it’s not a bad lark really. They probably even get a few tax breaks as well. Depreciation on the vintage cars, or something.

Still I think classing it a fabulous job is a tad over the top. I think someone’s had a whiskey or three. Peated single malt, 12-year-old whiskey, that is.

Either you have it or you don’t. No degrees in medicine or philosophy could ever bestow you with the brazen attitude (or is that audacity), that being a doctor of this sort requires.

Let me describe it to you. A spin doctor helps someone else out of the corner they have painted themselves into. Except of course they haven’t painted themselves into a corner. In fact there’s no paint, and there’s not even a corner, come to that.

Is there?

In “reality” someone has merely paused temporarily on one the other side of the room while they reassess their options before issuing a public statement.

In other words you get to cover up the gaffes, goofs, and extra martial affairs of your clients, by putting the whole mess down to being “a misunderstanding”. Your clients are usually married politicians, married celebrities, and married anyone-elses who are somehow in the public domain.

In fact spin doctors have been responsible for covering up some of the biggest rorts and scandals in recent times. How? Well you take a fight fire with fire approach. If you can’t somehow explain away one person’s “difficulty” then you simply create a diversion, and point the spot light on someone else.

And this means keeping close tabs on the (soon to be former) friends and acquaintances of the aforementioned married politicians, married celebrities, and other married “hanger-oners”.

It also helps having your ear to the ground, your finger on the pulse, and knowing what a bevy of politicians, celebrities, and sure, even a couple of bloggers, are up to. That way when a client calls up needing help, you are instantly able to divert the media’s attention onto some other poor sod’s misdemeanours.

You also need to be handy with neologisms, and ready to fire off terms like values migration and paradigm shift, the second you see a reporter or camera crew come into sight.

Also you need to be able to go back on yourself without appearing to, and devise, often on the fly and with scant information, elaborate and confusing stories designed to send the media scurrying down blind allies.

Yes, sir, it’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.

Ironically, with their quick thinking, and mental dexterity, “spinners” could probably solve many of the world’s problems. Sadly though, another waste of talent and ability. And tax payers’ money.

Actually now that I think about it, there’s nothing the least bit glamourous, or fabulous, about this sort of work at all. Where’s the prestige in airing one person’s dirty laundry, while concealing someone else’s at the same time?

But a good spin doctor can do something about even that. Can’t they?

Alternatively you could try saying “I work in public relations, but my work is classified.” Actually don’t mention the public relations bit, and people will think you’re a spy.

And trust me, people will be a lot happier to talk to a spy at a dinner party, than a spin doctor.

“This is your captain speaking. We are currently cruising at 30,000 feet and shortly the cabin staff will begin serving drinks.”

How many times have you heard words like those, and yearned to be saying them yourself? Doesn’t the cool, calm, and collected tone of your captain’s voice instill a certain sense of security and well-being, that must make even the most nervous, and phobic, of flyers rest easy?

“Due to strong head winds on the in-bound leg we now expect to be outside the terminal at 10:30pm rather than 9:30pm.” Or, “Take off this afternoon has been slightly delayed while we await the final off sign of our departure paperwork.”

See, it’s always someone else’s fault, never yours! The job’s all spin, isn’t it? Even I could do that. I bet elocution lessons are part of “flight” training, and as captain, you are probably given a book containing all the lines you’ll ever need to calm and reassure your patients passengers.

I once wanted to be an airline pilot. I once believed (still do, actually) there was a certain… romance in air travel. Of late night departures, taxying along runways guided only by the edge lights, and watching as the glow of the city far below vanishes into the darkness.

And what did you say was required to become a pilot? A good voice?

Unfortunately though, those of us who think we can talk our way into, and through, a job like this have something else coming. A pyramid like structure, that’s what.

At the bottom of this “pyramid” is a single engine Cessna aircraft. Pretty easy to fly, I’ve even done it myself. A four engine Boeing 747, located at the top of the pyramid, is another matter though.

And no, the control tower could not talk a novice through landing one of those babies if the pilot became incapacitated, as Hollywood script writers would have us believe.

So make that an inverted pyramid structure, where working your way to the top involves travelling a path that, when viewed from the ground looking up, is above your head, not below your feet. And unless you are a fly (no pun intended) with sticky, feet you are more than likely to fall should you take a wrong step.

And, sadly, a good bedside manner just isn’t enough to reach the top.

But would you really want to get to the top? This is literally a job that requires travel, and being thousands of miles from home on Christmas day, your kids birthdays, and at the weekend. You don’t clock in at 9am, or run for the bus at 5pm, in this kind of gig either.

There’s jet-lag, fast turn arounds, and while there are exotic locations aplenty, there’s no time to see them. And if you thought an office cubicle was constricted trying spending the duration of a 24 hour flight in the confines of a cockpit.

You won’t find me there, I’ll be in economy (unless I can fluke an upgrade), sipping wine and watching Casablanca on the in-flight movie channel. Now there’s air travel romance for you.

Someone wrote in asking if I was going to cover this one, and I’m surprised I didn’t think of it sooner, given a former flatmate was a fashion photographer! And what an eye opening experience that was, but I digress…

Well the job description sounds uber cool doesn’t it? Let’s see, take photos of actors, models, celebrities, TV, Radio, and media personalities, not to mention all the fabulous, glamourous “beautiful people” who make the A-List.

You go to all the openings, debuts, launches, lunches, and after parties in town, and what is it you have to do? Take photos! Huh, how hard can that be? Furthermore your work is published in the top fashion magazines, and your photography is the talk of the town.

And then as my former flatmate discovered, there are a whole bunch of extra “perks”. Like the “friendships” with the aforementioned fabulous, glamourous beautiful people, and the over eager wannabe models and B-Listers trying to “get noticed”.

The list goes on, oh, and who else is able to boast about being invited to Nicole Kidman’s house for dinner?

I have a camera, I could have a crack at this. Ok, it’s a very small digital camera, but it has a resolution of 3.2 Megapixels, and it does take photos, what more do you ask?

Well actually just a little more than that…

Like some actual talent and ability for taking photos. And a little charisma so you can “work it baby, work it.” A decent portfolio that will catch the eye of someone like Miranda Priestly is a must. And while we are talking about Miranda Priestly some of her attitude would also go a long to bringing your ambitions to fruition.

And you know about attitude don’t you? Either you have, or you don’t. Looks like my digital cam isn’t going to cut it for me after all. And by the way, yes, size matters in this industry babee.

But then there’s also long hours, countless re-shots, the fabulous, glamourous beautiful people, and other A-Listers who “forget” show up for the shot, or who are three hours “fashionably” late, dah-ling. There are late nights in the dark room, and the countless rejections from Miranda Priestly and her ilk.

So is it really for you?

My old flatmate is a food photographer now. He says food doesn’t talk back, turn up late, nor call at 3 o’clock in the morning to talk incessantly about domestic problems, or final demands from the tax office.

Good food speaks for itself he says, and doesn’t have bad hair days, nor blood shot eyes.

But the best part is he can be tempted by good food without getting into the least bit of trouble with his wife!

Ok, here’s a fun one. Who wouldn’t want to be an Astronaut? It’s pioneering and groundbreaking work. You get to blast off into the wide blue yonder and go places most people (expect for those with a lazy few million dollars), wouldn’t have the remotest hope of coming within several billions miles of.

And then there’s having fun floating above the Earth in a gravity free environment, trying to spot things like the Great Wall of China, and the Sydney Opera House (which should be visible if they’ve kept its tiles pristine white).

And if you’re really lucky, and can get rostered aboard the right rocket, you might even be the first person to set foot on another planet. And that could prove a short cut to your next career, as a celebrity, you know, a star who travelled among the stars, if you play your cards right.

Tempted then are you? Ok, so how does one become an Astronaut, I hear you ask. Well, there are one or two prerequisites.

First up you should at least have the ability to pilot a Jumbo jet (Concorde would be a bonus but is not essential), plus also be familiar with the flight modes of a couple of the latest model jet fighters.

It would also help to have the mental agility of Albert Eienstein, and the constitution of a championship triathlete. You should also be prepared to undergo intrusive medical tests daily, and look forward to “tumble runs”, where you are locked in a small pod, which then is spun around the room at amazing velocity!

You should also enjoy living in conditions akin to a sardine can, and in very close proximity to other people. If you like privacy, and stretching out on the sofa at the end of a long day (whenever days actually end in space - does anyone know?), this job may not be for you.

And if you thought airline food was bad, wait till you try the rocket ship variety. It’s not really food though, it’s a kind of liquid pulp, which you slip through straws out of plastic bags. Mind you, they say it tastes ok, and at least there are no dishes to wash afterwards.

And while pilots will tell you landing a plane is the trickiest part of their job, taking off is the least fun for an Astronaut. Unless you like the feeling of a dozen elephants standing on your chest as you accelerate to Earth escape velocity.

So is it for you? And just going back to the point about being an instant celebrity. Well no, not quite. While the rest us can look forward to 15 seconds of fame, an Astronaut is limited to just ten seconds. That’s the length of the final countdown sequence. After that, I’m sorry, but we’re all watching the rocket, not you!