The meaning of "life"

I have been trying to write a book for the last two and a half years. I liken the process to solving an n-body physics problem, where n, instead of being the number of atoms in a molecule, is the number of words in my manuscript (about 75000 last time I counted). The n-body problem is difficult to solve for n greater than 2 so I feel a bit like I'm attempting to carve the statue of David given a large hunk of rock and a spoon.

I'll be writing this blog, hopefully, now and then to get the writing juices flowing better. This first post is about a particular few days as a young student in Scotland. I was looking for a job, and discovered, in the process, the meaning of 'life':

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The year is 2003: I walk one day to my usual cafe and notice a sheet of paper stuck to the nearby jobs board. It says, “Life models needed: 40 quid per two hour session”.

 “Deal”, I think.

Two days later I find myself outside a grey medieval building. A cheerful and horsey young woman in a pashmina greets me at a clunky wooden door. She shows me through a winding corridor to a hall filled with artists holding their pencils and sketch books. “Where do you want me to sit?” I ask.

The lady points to an opening among the people. “Over there on the stool, if you don't mind. The change room...”

I walk over to the stool and sit down. “I’m ready when you are”, I say.

The young lady goes quiet. She skips over to me and lowers her voice. “Umm, are you familiar with life modeling? Have you done it before?” she asks.

“I've never been drawn before, but I drew some life models at school, pretty straightforward, isn't it?”

“Okay”, she says. “What exactly do you understand by the process?”

“Isn’t it when you draw live things? As opposed to non-living things?”

She smiles. “Well, there is the added caveat that you’re supposed to be naked.”

People in ear shot of us laugh. “What? The life models at school were never naked!” I protest.

“Well, listen, there’s obviously been some misunderstanding”, she says. “I’ll call one of our backups.”

I think to myself for a moment. “Uch no, don’t worry, I’ll do it”, I say.

“Are you sure? You don’t even have a robe or anything. Where are you going to change?”

“It’s fine, I’ll just change here.”

I look around the room. People seem like they are trying not to snigger. I stand up. I undo my shoelaces and remove my shoes. I unzip my warm fluffy jacket. “Oh shit”, I think. “I'm not wearing underpants.” The audience whisper things to each other through their toothy grins. I slide my trousers down my thighs. I want to say, "I know what you're thinking, I know it's a bit weird not to be wearing underpants, but I find in life that underpants and socks tend to just vanish." My trousers get stuck around my ankles. I sit on the stool again and tug away at the trouser legs. Voila! My clothes are in a pile next to me. I am naked. 

“Thank you”, says the lady. “Please fold your arms and raise your left leg slightly. Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to do a couple of two minute sketches in different poses as a warm up.”

People laugh now and then, like they are children in a school who can't stop sniggering after the teacher tells them off.  “Is this the most embarrassing situation ever?” I think to myself. “Nah, nowhere near as embarrassing as the time I got explosive diarrhoea in Kenya and ran about the countryside trying to find a tree to hide behind, thinking 'you-stupid-bloody-Kenyans-why-have-you-chopped-down-all-your-trees-how-is-a-guy-supposed-to-have-explosive-diarrhoea-around-here!' And then being surrounded by tiny children watching me throw my dignity to the wind while I shout, “Ah, shew you bloody kids, get away from here, shew!”