Huge apologies once again to those who have missed out, particularly the gentleman whose appointment today I had been looking forward to – rescheduling will be eminently possible by this time next week, and I will be tentatively taking short incalls from Monday assuming things calm down and the painkillers work – no guarantees. Until then I will be remaining safely on the couch, with possibly a gentle detour to the swimming pool, since the left side of my head already resembles a flotation device. By way of passing the time (since I have been home alone now since last week, and am running out of reading, viewing and knitting material) I have pondered on a question I am commonly asked which arose yet again whilst in London: ‘What’s A Nice Girl Like You Doing In A Job Like This?’

Firstly, I am well aware that my chosen vocation is not the only one which inextricably generates the most gratuitous stereotyping – we have all heard that accountants are boring (mine isn’t), builders are cowboys, and that lawyers and estate agents couldn’t lie straight in bed (no comment) and so on. Shelf stackers are the new thick (when I was at school it was emptying the bins, a singularly desirable and well respected occupation nowadays) and everybody knows that bankers are the new scum. But my job would appear to be the only one where even our customers, those who – lets not forget – are paying us significantly large sums of money, seem to be genuinely surprised when prostitutes turn out to be nice?

The word ‘nice’ can encompass a lot of things, and to clarify a little, on the occasions I am asked it is usually after I have opened the door and welcomed my guest not dressed like an extra from a Max Hardcore film, demonstrated my ability to not only string a sentence together but actually hold a conversation, spent at least ten minutes in a room with Mr Punter without scowling, moaning or texting anybody and probably even smiled a bit, as is my general demeanour when presented with folk who have picked me out, come along to make mischief and have a jolly time. None of this presents a particular stretch to me, and what I have always wondered is that if my gentleman visitors were not expecting me to be chatty, friendly, obliging and generally a good egg, yet were STILL prepared to turn up and hand over a couple of hundred quid – what exactly were they expecting?

Now, I can only speak for myself, but it is worth pointing out a couple of things – I, whilst generally fairly placid and amenable, am most certainly not Nice all the time as anybody who has got on the wrong side of me will testify. I am not educated (doing well at school being another trad Nice Girl trait which is why I mention it, since it seems to be a misapprehension laboured under by a significant proportion of those who meet me) and whilst I have over the years encountered ladies who would give a privet hedge a run for it’s money in terms of cognitive ability, this has made no difference at all to their personal qualities or their ability to do their job. Virtually every successful prostitute I have ever met has been nice, far nicer than most civvy people, and bar a couple of jaw-droppingly greedy, bitter and mercenary examples putting in an occasional appearance on some of the industry message boards (and sometimes under the guise of the most sickening butter-wouldn’t-melt posting personae) this has held true, and the latter tend not to stick around for long. Thus it could almost be said, albeit from my limited experience, that our being Nice was virtually a given? Particularly since other desirable qualities in an intimate partner – however temporary – would surely be sensitivity, tolerance, compassion and humanity, amongst others?

This is not a snob subject either – OK, I don’t offer short or ‘on-demand’ appointments, I do screen clients mainly by the way they approach and communicate with me (and yes, the text speak aficionados do go in the bin) and naturally I am at my best when in the company of people who behave kindly and respectfully; I don’t think this is a result of Niceness, just self-preservation, but I suspect that it alters the way prospective punters view me, and more tellingly themselves – I only see Nice prostitutes (or God preserve us, ‘escorts’), therefore I must be Nice too. More importantly, of the ladies who do encounter the punters I do not, their many positive reports would seem to suggest that they are the nicest of all – I believe (without checking) the current statistics on Punternet show that over 90% of FRs are positive, and whilst obviously many punters have never heard of reports and this is only one site (plus naturally not all of these positives will be attributed to Niceness per se) it doesn’t exactly suggest an industry packed full of cold, uncommunicative robot-women either. I should also state that I am talking about the people who do their jobs properly, and we all know there are plenty who do not; to say that prostitutes are all miserable, deceitful witches because of this is like saying that all window cleaners are useless because they leave streaks on the windows – they don’t, just the bad ones.

It could be argued that since I do not fill my advertising, blog or correspondence with tawdry, contrived rubbish about how I spend all my free time playing with my tits and can’t wait until I next get my hands on a massive cock because I am so horny (and when was good old British ‘randy’ relegated in favour of this abomination anyway?) all the time that I may come across as Nice in the ‘prim and proper’ sense (which is probably fair) but if I did I would still be the same prossie only with a bit of unimaginative desperation thrown in, plus there are undoubtedly people who both want and actively seek that kind of thing. My advertising would in my view be very boring, although it’s worth pointing out that this is practically de rigueur on Adultwork, and a blog with no cheerful tragi-touting would be an odd one indeed. Most crucially, none of this makes said bloggers, touts and anybody else who has ever made up a load of simplistic soft-porn cobblers hoping it will win a few more over any less NICE. As the song says, it ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it…

Anyway, I have rambled enough for now and my trifle-with-a-cheeky-side-of-Metronidazole awaits. If the gentlemen who have asked over the years are reading, I am aware that this doesn’t answer your question but it has given me something to do (until I next get my hands on you-guessed-it, haha) and for that alone I am eternally grateful. Time for rest, bringing-of-the-quilt-to-the-settee, and a quiet evening. More soon.

After what we could conservatively call a lively and action-packed week I am officially relaxing today and the only meaningful activity in which I will be engaging is to be staggering over to the gym for some light cardio (as in looking at the treadmill) and a leisurely swim and sauna prior to organising one of my few New Year’s resolutions; I will be treating myself to a lovely spa treatment once a month, or at least until I tire of lying around being exfoliated, massaged, slathered in expensive body butter and wrapped kindly in warm blankets by delightful young ladies in smart yet pleasingly pyjama-y outfits which, trust me, is not likely to be anytime soon. Or ever.

This week I have also virtuously recycled the Christmas tree, finished off the last of the leftovers and braved the ridiculously long queues at the Post Office to send my passport renewal form; not bad value at seventy-seven fifty plus five pounds for postage, on top of another five pounds for new pictures from the photo-machine. This last not-inconsiderable price hike (since the three 50ps I remember feeding into the slot for the last set) instantly began turning me into my dad, although I was pleasantly surprised with the results (bar the runny nose from the freezing wind outside – since it is Passport and not Match.com, hardly crucial) and compared to the one gracing the passport I have had since March 2001 almost flattering, nose aside. I have checked my insurance, asked at the bank about US dollars and bought a Lonely Planet from Waterstones; the news earlier this week that some of these stores are to close filled me with horror and keen to show my support, I also purchased a 2011 diary and calendar, a nice new bookmark and whiled away a happy ten minutes tentatively investigating a Kindle.

As some will also know, my birthday is a scant two weeks away – I will be proudly thirty-eight and am already planning a day out to celebrate. The difficulty of finding things to do in mid-late January has been a bugbear for as long as I can remember and the current plan is a relaxing visit to York for Art Gallery-Afternoon Tea-Shops-Pictures-Dinner. I often feel sorry for those poor ladies who never seem to have any birthdays, and can only assume they must make other arrangements for special occasions with cake; not that there is anything wrong with this, I certainly have special-occasion pork pie at every opportunity that presents itself, and the more often the better. So far, I am waiting for weather updates before finalising details – I am sure we have all heard that the snow and ice are planning a comeback, but thus far these predictions seem to have been needlessly pessimistic and in the event that they are not, my fabulous snowboots will save the day. They should also save me money, since they take so long to take off and put back on I am unlikely to be interested in trying on anything else.

Needless to say, normal service is being resumed as of tomorrow and I am already virtually booked up from then until Thursday – apologies to those who didn’t manage to make their arrangements in time for discount week, but appointments were at a premium and as ever early booking is well advised – you’ll know for next year! I am currently taking appointments for my first London visit of the year (February 2nd – 6th) and would advise interested parties to make their presence known sooner rather than later. Meanwhile, I intend to enjoy the remainder of my first day off in over a week, investigate the recuperative powers of butterscotch Angel Delight (yet to be officially recognised, but I am fully prepared to vouch for them) and do precisely nothing for the duration. Happy New Year to me!

However, the whole debacle did prompt me to ponder how far anybody should reasonably be expected to go in terms of taking responsibility for their advertising, particularly if written English, designs and layouts and general marketing nous isn’t really, well, their thing. Leaving aside the issue of plagiarism which is in my view unforgivable whatever the circumstances (and equally, I’m not talking about calling on a mate to proofread and so forth which I have done for plenty of folk myself), when is it better to get stuck in and be able to take pride in your hard work, knowing that it is all your hard work, and at what point do we say – ‘Hmm, I’m not actually very good at this. Nah. Best get somebody else to do it and no one’ll ever know’. To me, this is when things get, well, a bit fuzzy.

As those who know me well will be very much aware, my mathematics in general (and mental arithmatic in particular) is such that I would never, ever be able to fill in a tax form by myself; as I have stated before, I could not score a darts game with a gun held to my head and whilst a Self Assessment form is hardly decimal fractions, even the sight of a page of figures literally makes me want to burst into tears and faint dead away (we’re back to the old movie ladies again). Therefore, I pay my fabulous accountant to do it it for me – he is worth every penny, and I have never, ever claimed that I do it all myself. I would probably still be paying for pro-photographs had I not been so disappointed with the second (and last) set I had taken, but two years later I’m very glad I am not and as far as I can tell, so are my lovely punters.

Apart from that, I’m (along with most of the ladies I know personally in one way or another) apparently in something of a minority – I write everything on my own site and am responsible for all my own odds and ends of advertising blurb (I certainly did not put the site together in the first place, and am still completely untechy – the patience of my longsuffering website lady in teaching me how to add, edit and prat about with it knew and still knows no bounds), I take my own pictures and do all of the resizing and faffing before I upload them to my Gallery. It should go without saying that I answer my own phone and emails (it still amazes me how many people ring and ask if they can speak to Amy) and I had always assumed that all other genuine independent workers were the same, but it seems not. This week I have not only heard about a lady who had no idea what the front page of her website even looked like (and didn’t recognise it when it was shown to her), but spoken to another who checks hers so seldom that she had no idea which photographs were on it, and also been told of yet another who on the phone spoke what was apparently rather apathetic-sounding but nevertheless flawless Queen’s English á la World Service, yet in person boasted a broad and lovely Blackburn accent (and rather tellingly, had a decidedly patchy recollection of the telephone conversation which had taken place some four hours previously when questioned).

One of the things I value more than anything else about my business and the accompanying freedom in my personal circumstances is the opportunity to try out and learn so many new things – I know from speaking to many other ladies (who often, like me, had grown up being led to believe that they would never amount to anything much bar filling shelves or getting the washing done) that many have been amazed at the discovery of administrative, marketing, accounting and general organisational skills they never realised they had, despite often having run households, raised families and held down more two or more civvy jobs at once while doing so. These are officially, I’m told, called ‘transferable’ skills and are nowadays recognised as Worthy Strings To One’s Bow. Whoring as the new gateway to Alan Sugar-dom? You betcha. How bizarre then that so many miss the trick?

I do keep things fairly simple for myself in that I do not cultivate any kind of separate persona – I am (for better or worse) very much as-seen and the thought of having to live up (or in some cases, down) to some false, manufactured creation (particularly one manufactured by somebody else) would be a horrendous strain; I would certainly not be able to write this blog, for example, although incredibly that doesn’t stop some who just find somebody else to do that for them too. Unfortunately, they inevitably get found out, and what begins as abject laziness soon becomes a hell of a lot more work in maintaining the illusion – work I know I couldn’t be bothered with when it’s easier to just be yourself in the first place. So does this make me arrogant and overconfident, or just happy and comfortable in my own skin? Bit of both?

If this missive seems overly self indulgent or congratulatory, that is not my intention. How others conduct their business is entirely their own affair, although I will confess to being childishly irritated by the passing off of the work of others as one’s own rather than admitting to the fact of being too damn idle to put the effort in yourself. So somebody else has ‘helped’ – why not at least concede we all have strengths and weaknesses, and be honest? But it matters not. As I have found out this week, the truth will out eventually. And after some of the conversations I’ve had lately, I have never felt so glad to be truthful in the first place.