"I'm in entertainment," I tell him.

Notions. Fantasies. Men.

His eyebrows fly up and I notice that they are almost perfectly symmetrical. "Really? What do you entertain?"

What, not who. Hmm.

"Whatever comes my way."

Fat fifty-year-olds basking in the rebellion that is their adultery, because when they were teenagers the worst thing they did was close the door a little too hard on their way to tuba practise. Thin fourteen-year-olds pretending they aren't jailbait - but only the rich ones. If I'm gonna dangle on a hook labelled statutory rape it's for big numbers. I pretend to ignore it when I can see the words so that's what mum's been hiding under that housecoat blare like neon in their eyes.

"So, what's your line? You a party clown?"

Party clown, party girl, same diff. "Sure, honey, slap my arse and I squeak."

"Alright, alright... what then, you a singer?"

Right. Ever hear of smoker's lung? "I sound like someone dropping a dead cat down a drain."

"Actress?"

"Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horace. Or something."

He laughs. Crooked teeth. Oh well.

I think the right eyebrow might be a little thicker.

"So... maybe you're a producer. Maybe you're in this bar looking for the next big thing."

Well, he might be dense, but the kid's got an imagination, I'll give him that. He must be twenty-five, probably fresh out of uni. Hair's too short to be an artist, he's too relaxed to be a scientist... we'll put him in Business Studies, the last refuge of the undecided. Probably an only child, possibly the product of a tragic broken home - there are shaving nicks all round his jaw which wouldn't be there if he had an older brother or a Daddy Who Cares.

Story of life. Not necessarily mine, but two out of three bar crawlers have Daddy Issues. That or HIV.

"So you're a talker then?"

If I could get a word in edgeways. "Honey, you gonna keep blabbering at me all night or are you going to open your wallet and take me somewhere shiny?"

His perfect eyebrows go up once again and he mouths the word entertainment. I wonder if that penny needed a parachute when it dropped?

Okay, so Mr Business Studies is a waverer - the scales in his mind are going should I, shouldn't I, should I, shouldn't I... He wants it, because his eyes are trailing down over the neckline of my top (hi, my name is Tina, and this is my cleavage) and the edge of my skirt (come on, it would only take a second for that to come off). He doesn't want it, because his mother would kill him and the only money he has is for his rent and his pay-per-view porn.

"Uh, sorry, but I, uh, I have somewhere to, uh, be," he mumbles, not looking me in the eyes and leaving with his head down.

Aww, pumpkin, you ruin all my fun.

Laugh, because it draws attention to yourself, bite your lip, because it's a subconscious offer of sex, flutter your eyelashes, because it exhibits your femininity, and the guy in the corner is giving me the eye.

"Alright, love..."

"Hi," big smile, sashay over to his table, "I'm Tina. I'm in entertainment."