Forget all about wallpapering and reupholstering the sofa. Forget about CPR and saving lives in the hospital. Forget about the coming exams that are giving me a minor migraine and major ulcers.
It's obvious that I have been going at it the wrong way!
All I wanna do now is get fabulous slinky Jimmy Choos, overly large grandma-like Chanel shades, tailored designer jackets that look like a million bucks and a subtle purse to the lips that would sink a promising fashion collection to the forgotten depths of obscurity. And then after work, help out with the charities by handing out spectacular freebies like Bang & Olufsen designer cellphones and Marc Jacobs slingbags to all my envious, drooling cronies before leaving for a spectacular society gala. Then go home to a delicious young journalist who greets me at the door dressed only in the latest unpublished manuscript from JK Rowling.
Sigh. Like Thursday's child, I still have very far to go.
Starting to get tough!
It is obvious that I'm far from the wicked witch from the west that I aspire to be - and hard, rigorous training is needed to achieve the heights of greatness that house the disreputable likes of Miranda Priestley. Come to think about it, for a she-devil in Prada like her, possibly the deepest bowels of hell.
Come on, it's obvious enough that being a charming do-gooder doesn't score me that amazing brownstone mansion in Park Avenue nor does it get me fabulous goodies like Versace jackets and Ferragamo pumps. Time enough to make a change. Since I've already been tarred and feathered for being wicked, I might as well play the role to the evil hilt. So from tomorrow onwards, I shall have to perfect that particularly chilly tone with the whispery diction as perfect as my ramrod straight posture just enough to excoriate the next unfortunate incompetent that comes my way and make them cry all the way home to their mamas. Scurry, ya little interns, if you know what's good for ya. Listen to the strut of my big bad Italian leather boots and shiver.
Oh yeah and I'll have to stop eating ( or drink blah cucumber / alfalfa leaf juices in place of regular meals ) just to fit in the designer stick-thin clothes I'll be receiving once I commence work on Runway.