Undertaker

The world of finance is changing, my friends. The good old days are gone; the bad old days are here to stay. And who wants to live in the bad old days? Not I said the hen. “Nothing is certain but death and taxes,” said Benjamin Franklin as he rocked back on his chair, overbalanced and punctured a lung. If you’re looking to move out of The City, what’ll it be: death or taxes? Taxes are boring. But death? That’s more like it. So just hand in your notice, don a black suit and pop round to your local funeral directors.

Before you start vomiting at the prospect of embalming duties, think about it. Sure, becoming a mortician promises to be quite an undertaking but barring a spectacular medical breakthrough the demand will always be there. The old will continue to snuff it, swine flu looks set to become the next big thing and if you’re lucky terrorists will re-release the bubonic plague like it’s Michael Jackson’s back catalogue. Just keep yourself healthy, bide your time and wait for the next pandemic.

Even though much of the work will be of the I’m-so-sorry-for-your-loss-here’s-our-pamphlet variety, there’s no getting away from the fact that you’ll have to deal with dead bodies. Mostly they’ll be wrinkled, riddled with disease and cocking stinky. Post mortem, they will to piss themselves, soil themselves and burp. My advice? Just wear a mask and grin and bear it. Then wait for the perks: gold fillings, forgotten rings and the odd diamond-encrusted Prince Albert. Plus every so often you will receive a gift from the gods: a pretty young thing aged 23. On that day just call your assistant, tell them to take the day off and get romancing.

Shit, did I say that out loud?